


Painting by numbers

by AllyinthekeyofX



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Case File, Dark, Gen, Original Character Death(s), Past Case, Tortured Mulder, Violence, Violent Death, serial Killer copycat
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2016-11-09
Packaged: 2018-08-18 17:55:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 34,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8170648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllyinthekeyofX/pseuds/AllyinthekeyofX
Summary: An unsolved case from Mulders past comes back to haunt him and Scully.





	1. Part 1

October 19th 1989

*He takes his time. There is no rush. Everything must be in order. His thoughts, his feelings, his quietude. They think he needs rage and violence and harsh light to do this work. But they are so wrong. It is precise. With great measure, understanding and detail. It cannot be hurried or the colours will not sing to him. And he needs to hear them. To burst forth and fill his soul with their beautiful words.

The canvas gleams white, inviting him to share his inner most thoughts and desires. It’s almost alluring. Tempting him in, knowing that he will not be able to resist. That only by immersing himself in the darkness, can he ever hope to gain the understanding he needs.

It speaks to him. Whispered words that invade his dreams. Taunting him, testing him. Finding him to be somehow wanting. Building him up before discarding him again.

Stripping him away to his very core. A mind laid bare. Knowing that what he is doing is wrong. So very wrong. But the voices are filling his mind, he can no longer fight against this need inside him. He can’t sleep, can’t eat, can’t think beyond this moment.

Flesh, blood and bone.

The pallet of the Gods.

Laid out for him to take. Only then can he hope to understand.

He picks up the paintbrush, it’s tip glistening deep scarlet in the diffused light that caresses the small room.

He does not see the red. At least not in a sense he understands. It is red, but at the same time it shines a myriad of colour and form. It is everything. It is nothing. 

He closes his eyes, an almost rapturous expression on his face, feeling a jolt of electricity in his very core as he brings the paintbrush to the roughened surface, tentatively at first, then with growing confidence as the lines begin to take shape before him.

The blood is congealing by the time he has finished. But he is happy. Spent. Sated even.

And he drops the brush on to the floor of his apartment, soiling the carpet below. But Mulder doesn’t notice. He concentrates only on his work*

XXXXXXXXXX

 

J Edgar Hoover Building   
Ten years later  
7:09am

 

Dana Scully smiled in response to the guard who waved her though with a twinkle of recognition. Many things had changed since she had first walked in to the building as a fully functioning field agent almost six years previously. Fresh out of the comforting, safe cocoon of Quantico, she had felt a small frisson of excitement the very first time she had passed through the large atrium and the security checks that would grant her access to the operational part of this vast building. She hadn’t known what to expect. Because back then, life had been filled with endless possibilities. Endless opportunities.

But the 28 year old Dana Scully was no more. That youthful exuberance that she could change the world had long since disappeared as she came to realise that it wasn’t she who could change the world, but rather the world who had changed her. Those days were gone. And the woman who had replaced her, while outwardly the same, was more damaged inside than she thought she would ever be. As each painful betrayal eroded her a little more, the blind trust she once had seemed like a lifetime ago. And over the years, she had learned to be ever more suspicious of those imposturous allies who alleged to be her friends.

But the one constant each morning had been this man. Aside from a brief absence when his wife had passed away prematurely a couple of years ago, Moses Abraham had been the one who, each day had been the first to greet her as she made her way to work.

“Morning Agent Scully. It’s a beautiful morning today.”

Scully flashed him a smile, same as always.

“It sure is Moses.”

“Early meeting?”

“Afraid so”

He nodded. In all these years they had never exchanged more than a dozen words at once. But the easy familiarity was there. 

“Well you have a good day Agent Scully.”

“You too Moses”

Scully made her way to the elevator, relieved to discover she was the lone occupant. Because as fiercely independent as she was, she had never quite got used to the curious glances that seemed to follow her around the building. Since her near death and subsequent recovery from terminal cancer – a condition that had become the hot topic of discussion amongst her peers despite her every effort to have it remain private –the glances and whispered speculation had increased tenfold.

Mrs Spooky wasn’t just spooky by association anymore. Oh no. Now she was a walking, talking, breathing X-File all of her own. And the rumour mill flourished as a result.

Mulder had learned to ignore them. Or at least to never react. But Scully knew that on the occasions when a whispered comment managed to reach her and the faint flush appeared to blemish her fair Irish skin, that she would never become accustomed to being the butt of so much speculation from her colleagues.

If only they knew – even the half of it – then perhaps they might not rush so headlong in their judgement.

The interior of the elevator was mirrored and Scully glanced across to check all was in order. A meeting with AD Skinner, regardless of the hour, demanded that she look her professional best. He had been their friend when no one else had, but that didn’t make him any the less uncompromising in his expectations of her as an Agent and she used the time to smooth a few errant wisps of hair away from her face, tucking it neatly behind her ears in the hope that it would stay there. It was shorter than she’d ever worn it, a decision taken when she had first been diagnosed. To try in some way to take control over at least a small part of her body. And also, in some kind of mental preparation for when the drugs destroyed the follicles and it began to fall out. To her surprise though, the hair loss had been minimal, which, given the amount of drugs they had pumped in to her, was nothing short of miraculous. But aside from a few more strands than usual washed down the drain when she showered, her hair had remained largely unaffected.

It wasn’t usual. But then nothing about her cancer had been usual and a fine collection of hats donated by various family members still languished, untouched on a shelf in her wardrobe. At one time it had seemed like everyone was throwing headgear at her in an attempt to validate their support when there was nothing else left to do or say.

Everyone except Mulder that is.

When she’d admitted her fears to him in a rare moment of female fragility – ridiculous fears given the gravity of her illness – that she was terrified of losing her hair, that she would somehow become less of a woman, he had simply put his arms around her and told her without having to speak, that she could never be any less to him than what she already was.

She had kept her hair the same length since that day. 

And now it had become almost a kind of talisman against the cancer coming back. A stupid, childish deal with God but one which still seemed important.

The elevator reached its destination, the sharp chime dragging Scully’s attention away from the mirror and, dropping her hands back to her side, she exited quickly, side stepping slightly to avoid the pair of Agents waiting to enter. She vaguely recognised them from her brief but painful secondment to the domestic terrorism section where she and Mulder had spent long, fruitless days searching for and cataloguing the nation’s agricultural fertilizer purchases. It had been, in every sense of the word, a shit assignment.

Her keen ears caught the word ‘Mulder’ although nothing else registered. But for once it didn’t bother her. 

She and Mulder had escaped the shit. 

They hadn’t. 

And that was enough of a victory for her to hold her head high as she walked along the corridor to Skinner’s office.

She entered the small ante room where his secretary normally guarded entry like a lioness protecting her cubs. No appointment, no audience. No excuses and no exceptions.

Mulder had butted heads with her on more than one occasion, but, like most unannounced visitors, he had usually been sent to wait on one of the hard chairs that bordered the room. Tail tucked firmly between his legs until she granted permission to enter the inner sanctum. She might not be a fully fledged field agent, but Holly Merryman took her responsibilities very seriously.

But the hour was just early enough for Holly to have not yet made an appearance and the desk was unmanned so Scully crossed directly to the door which opened even before she had a chance to knock, bearing witness to the fact that Skinner had been looking out for her.

He held the door open and waved her inside.

“Agent Scully.”

Scully nodded slightly.

“Sir.”

Skinner wasn’t generally big on the perfunctory greetings, deeming them a waste of time. 

Scully was surprised to see that another Agent was already seated on one of the two chairs directly in front of Skinner’s desk and she was slightly heartened to see that he, at least, acknowledged she was female, rising a few inches out of his chair and hovering there until she had seated herself beside him.

Skinner took the chair behind his desk and waved a hand in the direction of the unknown male.

“Agent Scully, this is Special Agent in Charge Robert Roberts”

Scully felt her left eyebrow start an ascent up in to her hairline and she suddenly wished Mulder were here. Only a few days ago they had shared a fairly hilarious conversation over one too many beers about the very subject of parental imagination –or lack thereof- when it came to naming their offspring. They had concluded that, despite the obvious butt-clenching childhood embarrassment, children with memorable names tended to be more destined for success. There was absolutely no scientific basis for this, especially given that ‘Fox’ was possibly the most out -there name Scully had ever encountered and career-wise at least, Mulder was in no way batting a thousand. Or even a hundred for that matter.

*Robert Roberts. You’d love this Mulder.*

But aware of Skinner’s eyes on her, Scully quickly composed herself, holding out her hand which Roberts shook briefly.

“Pleased to meet you Agent Roberts”

“Likewise Agent Scully. Thank you for coming in at this early hour”

Scully nodded. He didn’t need to know that she had been awake since just before 4am – since the cancer her sleep patterns were royally screwed and bouts of insomnia were still a regular occurrence in her life. She had confided in both her doctor and her partner. The medical suggestion had been pills. The Mulder suggestion had been to just sleep when her body told her it was necessary, shrugging it off as no big deal when she occasionally fell asleep in the middle of the afternoon in the car on their way to a case, or with her head resting on crossed arms as she grabbed a nap at her desk while he worked quietly at the opposite side of the room. Sometimes he would wake her up with a gentle touch to her shoulder, occasionally to her face. At other times he would just leave her, allowing her to awaken when she needed to. Never making her feel awkward that she had zonked out on him again. Ironically, she seemed sometimes to have less energy now than when she had been fighting to stay alive. But Mulder just accepted it.

Her body was still adjusting he said. Her mind was still adjusting. He got it. He also got that it didn’t need constant analysis by either of them. For the moment at least, it was just something that happened occasionally.

“You’re welcome.”

And then she looked questioningly at Skinner.

*Why am I here?*

Skinner reached over the desk and handed her a manila file stamped ‘confidential’. A case file.

“Agent Scully are you familiar with the portrait murders?”

Scully glanced down at the file she now held in her hands and dragged her mind back.

“Um.....I believe they were a series of murders that took place in the late 80s in the DC area. A random series of victims who were found with their throats cut.....I believe the killer painted a portrait of them and left it at the scene beside them.....um....I believe the murders ended abruptly in 1989 and the killer was never found.”

Skinner nodded.

“In a nutshell Agent Scully. Although there were a few aspects of the case that were never released to the media. “

“Sir?”

Skinner nodded his head towards the file.

“Take a look”

Scully slipped a thumb between the cover and the first of many pages beneath and flipped it open. She gasped as the first thing she saw was an eight by ten of one of the victims – a young woman, maybe in her very early twenties. Slumped against a wall, eyes unseeing but wide open, her mouth fixed in a silent scream of terror. But what really struck Scully as particularly grotesque was the way her head lolled to the side, held in place by nothing more than a few sinewy strands. Her throat had been cut with such force that she had almost been decapitated. The blood loss was horrific; in fact it was like she had bathed in it. She must have bled out incredible quickly because the entire floor around her was awash, a crimson sea, slightly darker around the edges where the blood had begun to congeal. 

And then she saw it, just to the left of the body. An artist’s palette, a selection of brushes, a few tubes of what looked like acrylics and in the foreground, a framed canvas, depicting the image of a young woman, smiling, highlights bouncing off glossy hair, eyes crinkled up in amusement. It was beautifully painted in every sense of the word and Scully swallowed, quite unable to reconcile this exquisite work of art with the ravaged and defiled woman beside it. 

What’s wrong with this picture?

Scully narrowed her eyes. Aside from the obvious, something wasn’t right. The detail of the portrait was undeniable. The skill was undeniable....but......

Scully gasped and her hand flew to her throat. A purely involuntary action brokered by the sudden realisation.

“Oh My God. It’s her blood.”

Her mouth dropped open.

“He painted it using her blood?”

“Yes.”

Scully closed her eyes briefly. The psychosis at work to decapitate a victim with such force was one thing. But to paint using the spilled blood as a medium? That went way beyond criminally insane. It was almost inhuman.

“You see why it was never released in to the public domain?”

Skinner didn’t wait for her to answer.

“Has Agent Mulder ever discussed this case with you?”

Scully looked at him sharply. She was suddenly aware of a pulse beating in her ears. And she knew with a certainty she couldn’t explain that whatever was coming next, it was going to be bad for her partner. She shook her head slightly, her mind’s eye still focused on the bloody canvas in the photograph. And then she knew.

“This was Mulders case?”

Skinner nodded.

“Yes. Mulder was lead profiler. He........Agent Scully it didn’t go well for him.”

“Sir?” She heard the way her voice’s tone had jacked up a notch. “What do you mean ‘It didn’t go well for him?”

Skinner rose from his position behind the desk, coming around to instead perch on the corner, arms folded as he regarded his female agent.

“Agent Mulder got in very deep. Too deep Agent Scully. He became immersed in the victims, in the murderer. He claimed he was inside his head...”

“Mulder was a profiler Sir” she said, stating the obvious, “A profiler by their very nature...”

Skinner cut her off

“Mulder was 28 years old Scully. Twenty eight. He was barely out of the academy but already making a name for himself as a brilliant criminologist. His ability to put the pieces together, to find cause and effect....well, it was uncanny. But he didn’t know when to stop. When to take a break. When to rest. You know what I’m talking about. We’ve both seen it in him.”

“The Mostow case?” Scully was barely aware of asking the question.

“Yes. But that was just a taste. Compared to the portrait murders, the Mostow case was like a walk in the park.......but there were.......similarities in Mulder’s behaviour during both cases.”

He reached forwards and took the file from Scully’s hands, flipping through it until he found what he sought.

Another portrait, this one slightly cruder. A young man. Younger. So much younger than she had ever known him to be. But despite the age of the subject, the less gifted hand, the way the lines blended together on the canvas, she would know that face anywhere.

Scully felt a sudden burning at the back of her throat. 

To know an artist you have to look at his art......

“Mulder did this?”

Skinner took the file from her once again and laid it face down on the desk.

“Yes. “  
“Whose blood is it? Is it his?”

“No. It’s pigs blood. Mulder had a receipt from an abattoir.”

“Oh God”

Scully wiped a hand over her mouth, suddenly desperate for a drink of water.

“There’s more Agent Scully”

*More? How much fucking more can there be?*

Skinner’s voice sounded tight. She had heard the tone before. Used only when he was either desperately annoyed or desperately worried. She was in no doubt that it was in response to the latter.

“Agent Mulder didn’t report to his ASAC that night. He was found in his apartment. He had overdosed on barbiturates. He barely survived. “ 

Scully heard a gasp. It took her a moment to realise that the sound had come from her and she suddenly found that drawing a breath was impossible. Her heart was beating so fast she was afraid it would break out of her chest. 

*I don’t want to hear any more.*

“Mulder was hospitalised of course. He recovered. He was immediately removed from the case and relieved of his investigative duties. He underwent intensive therapy and returned to work six months later. Shortly after that he requested a transfer out of the unit. It was granted without question. The murders ceased. As you said, the killer was never caught.”

Scully tried to absorb what her superior was telling her and her eyes widened in shock.

“Sir, you don’t think Agent Mulder........?”

Skinner held up a hand.

“No Agent Scully. NO I absolutely do not think that. There was nothing to tie Mulder to the crimes....”

“ I’m sorry Sir I don’t understand.......”

“Agent Scully?”

Scully started as Roberts spoke for the first time. She had almost forgotten he was beside her, so focused had she been on Skinner. Dumbly she observed the file he held in his hands, almost identical, but clearly newer.

“Three nights ago a woman’s body was found. Next to a portrait. A portrait painted in blood.....yesterday morning I received this from my Assistant Director....”

He handed her the duplicate copy of a paper form she knew well. She had filled out hundreds of them since joining Mulder on the X-Files. It was a form that requested involvement on a case. A case being handled by another agent, department or field office. Protocol dictated that permission must be given.

She recognised the slightly untidy scrawl immediately.

Mulder

And with a rapidly escalating feeling of dread, she realised his request had been approved.

Continued in part II


	2. Part 2

Back down in their basement office, Scully found it hard to concentrate on anything much other than watching the painfully slow progress of the clock as it inched its way towards 8am. 

Mulders office hours weren’t an exact science. Depending what time he’d made it home last night would pretty much govern what time he made it in this morning. She had known him to arrive at the office obscenely early...or impossibly late. Hell, she’d even arrived on occasion to find him wearing the same clothes as the previous day, his jaw darkened by stubble as he shrugged away her concerns that he had pulled an all-nighter.

But no such luck this morning. The office had been locked and silent when she had escaped down here and a part of her was glad for the solitude it offered in order to arrange her thoughts.

The file lay in front of her on the corner of Mulders desk where she had placed it for the third time in the thirty minutes since she had exited Skinner’s office, her last view of her superior’s expression indicating clearly that he was not at all happy with her partners’ choices.

She was as surprised as he was that Mulder had submitted the 302 without first discussing it with her. A closed book on occasion, he didn’t usually hide the really important stuff from her.

And if she were honest, his concealment of something that held such earth-shattering implications for him had left her with a vague sense of disappointment.

Not to mention hurt.

Scully sighed and let her eyes rove around the office. As familiar as an old glove, it no longer seemed cluttered to her. Instead it had, over the course of the years, begun to represent a kind of strange security. Her life with Mulder was in this room. Not just contained in the grey filing cabinets or as newspaper cuttings tacked to the walls, but in the memories they had shared, the arguments, tender moments, laughter and pain that had bonded them irrevocably to each other over the years. And she had thought that the emotional ditching at least was a thing of the past.

Her eyes flicked to the file again and she fought a sudden urge to just pick it up and drop it in the trash.

She had made herself view the contents. And despite trying to be objective, she found herself recoiling at some of the information contained within. She knew why of course – the file was no longer just a collection of unknown facts to be assimilated with clinical detachment and coolly dissected. 

This was instead, personal to Mulder and therefore personal to her.

The fact they had never even met when the first set of murders had taken place was irrelevant. There was no timeline that governed her concern for her partner. Irrespective of when it happened, she found that the knowledge of his slow descent in to the darkness twisted at her heart as though it had happened yesterday.

She knew the man. She was attuned to his pain in ways she didn’t always fully understand. And she knew it worked both ways.

*Why didn’t you tell me Mulder?*

Scully settled back in the chair, folded her arms and waited.

 

XXXXX

 

As it turned out, she didn’t have to wait long. The minute hand had just inched past the hour when her partner made an appearance. Although she had heard him approaching before he made it through the door. Even if the ding of the elevator hadn’t alerted her, the sound of his footsteps surely would have. He was walking fairly carefully, which past experience told her, meant he was probably carrying coffee without the aid of cardboard carrier. The small family-run coffee shop they both favoured sometimes offered the cup carrier, sometimes it didn’t. When it was a single cup it didn’t really matter. But when it was two...well it became a bit of a balancing act.

“Hey”

Sure enough, Mulder deposited one of the cups he was holding on to the desk in front of her and the rich aroma immediately assaulted her. Almond cappuccino with an extra shot. Her current morning beverage of choice. Mulder on the other hand was more of a purest. Rarely deviating from the strong Columbian roast her favoured. Black with two sachets of sugar to take away some of the bitterness. He never took either cream or milk with his coffee. It was, he maintained, a monstrous thing to do to a good caffeine hit.

A fresh plain bagel joined her cappuccino. Cream cheese filling – the real kind – for her while his cinnamon raisin was naked aside from a smear of butter which would have melted in to the dough just the way he liked it.

Under normal circumstances, Scully would have flashed him a mega-watt smile for bringing her breakfast but this morning, her appetite had deserted her. Mulder didn’t notice as he regarded her from his newly adopted position opposite, taking a bite out of his bagel before raising his eyebrows in question.

“So, what did Skinner want?”

Scully had told him the previous night that she had been called in to a meeting with their superior. In fact, they had spent a few minutes casually speculating as to why he would want to see one without the other. It usually meant one of them was in trouble, but for once, nothing immediately obvious had jumped to the fore.

She couldn’t help wondering though if Mulder had suspected and had just been trying to deflect.

Scully took a sip of her coffee. Carefully keeping both her expression and her tone neutral.

“He wanted to discuss a case with me.”

Mulder raised his eyebrows.

“Oh? What case?”

Scully placed her coffee down on the desk and reached for the discarded case file which she held in her hand for just a few seconds before reaching forwards and dropping it in front of Mulder. 

“This one.”

Mulder’s hazel eyes darkened slightly in recognition. A subtle shift in his demeanour that would be unapparent to a casual observer. Scully picked up on it immediately. A strange mixture of defence, guilt and apprehension. He at least had the decency to appear contrite.

“Ah”  
Ah? That’s all?

“Mulder?”

“Yeah?”

Scully frowned and waved a hand towards him

“When were you going to tell me? Were you planning on telling me at all?”

“Tell you what?”

She couldn’t quite work out if he were being deliberately obtuse or whether he really and truly didn’t see a problem.

“You’re kidding right?”

Mulder shrugged.

“It was my case. It’s still my case.”

And then realisation hit.

*He doesn’t think I know. He thinks his medical records would be confidential even from me. Especially from me.*

“I read your file Mulder. Your medical file”

Another shift in expression. Not so subtle this time. A kid, caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Angry that he’d been caught out.

“He had no right to show you that.”

Scully sighed knowing that if she pushed too hard, Mulder would simply refuse to discuss it.   
“He’s worried about you. I’m worried about you.”

Another shrug.

“It was a long time ago Scully. I’ll be fine.”

He refused to meet her eyes so Scully got up, making her way around the desk until she was perched on the corner, close enough to feel the warmth of him.

“Why Mulder? Why now after all this time?” she asked softly already fearing his answer. Her fears, as it turned out, were justified, because as he finally locked eyes with her, the guilt was plain to see.

“I failed those women Scully. I was so close, so damn close but when it came right down to it I couldn’t do it.” His voice was raspy, almost a whisper.

“You were ill Mulder. Your responsibility ended right there.” She was aware of the slightly panicked edge to her voice “You’re not a profiler anymore Mulder...let someone else do it.”

Her heart sank as he shook his head.

“I can’t. I need to finish what I started. I need closure.”

“It’s not your responsibility....”

Mulder shook his head slightly. An almost imperceptible movement. 

“If it’s not mine then whose is it Scully?”

“Mulder...please”

He regarded her thoughtfully. This women who knew him so well. He knew that she was afraid. Hell, he was afraid of the same thing, had thought of little else since the news of the latest murder had reached him. 

The feeling of absolute numbing horror that it was all starting again. 

Ten years later. 

Ten fucking years later. 

He’d hoped the bastard was long dead, almost managed to persuade himself of it. The news that he had killed again had repulsed him and piqued his interest in fairly equal measure. That fact alone had made him ashamed.

The one who got away.

This time he wouldn’t allow that to happen.

He touched his partner’s arm briefly.

“I have to do this Scully. I have to”

And right then, she knew it was pointless, that the darkness had already seduced him.

XXXXXXXXX

 

Scully regarded her partner thoughtfully out of the corner of her eye. The fact that Mulder was driving through rush hour traffic gave her a reasonable opportunity to study his profile as he kept his eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead.

They were on their way to meet with Agent Roberts and the rest of the hastily thrown together task force at the murder scene, although Scully was a little unsure as to what they hoped to find there. From reading the file, it was plain that forensics had already been all over it and any substantial evidence had been hard to find. The body had been removed. Mulder had not requested she autopsy since it was painfully obvious as to cause of death. A Tox screen had already been run, again, yielding nothing untoward.

She could see however, that the murder scene could give a valuable insight in to what may have been going on in the mind of the killer and that Mulder would reasonably expect to be given access. But the justification didn’t make any of this sit any easier with her.

Mulder had refused to discuss further any fear she had over the effect revisiting this case might have on him, waving away her concerns with assurances that he would be fine. 

That he was okay with it.

But now, as she regarded him, he didn’t look particularly okay. It could be argued that the tension in his face was as a direct result of the clogged up roads around DC; argued even that crime scenes weren’t generally at the top of Mulders ‘must see’ list for the day. Even without the connection to this case and the history it brought with it, her partner had never done so well at crime scenes – especially bloody ones – because for all his focus and unwavering professionalism when faced with such a situation, crime scenes turned his stomach. He had admitted as much to her once during a rare unguarded moment and she had been surprised to hear the admission from him. If he hadn’t told her, she wouldn’t have ever guessed, although in retrospect, she had recalled more than a few occasions when Mulders complexion had taken on an un-fetching greenish hue when he had had cause to interrupt an autopsy with some information he needed to share.

But she didn’t think it was any of these reasons.

His profile was set as though in stone. Jaw clenched tightly. She could almost see the tension knots forming in his shoulders as he stared fixedly ahead. He had not once glanced her way, focused as he was on the road ahead. But he was thinking. She could almost hear his mind working. No one could think more loudly than Mulder. He could hide it for the most part, but not from her. She knew the signs too well by now.

Scully sighed and flicked her eyes away from her partner’s set profile. It was going to be a long day she decided.

XXXX

 

“Agent Mulder? Rob Roberts. Good to have you on board.”

The older Agent extended a hand towards Mulder who gave it a perfunctory shake before inclining his head towards Sully.

“You’ve met my partner already, I believe?”

And Scully picked up just a hint of irony in his statement. Roberts though, either didn’t pick up on it or chose to ignore it. Instead he nodded in greeting and turned to the three other agents who were hovering on the fringes, waiting to be noticed.

“Marvin Walsh, Nick Kennedy and Sirus Malone. My three primary agents assigned to the case. Guys, Agents Fox Mulder and Dana Scully.”

A trio of murmured greetings and more handshakes and the circle of introduction was complete. 

The older of the three agents raised his eyebrows in sudden recognition.

“Fox Mulder? *The* Fox Mulder?”

Scully saw her partner tense, no doubt waiting for the inevitable ‘Spooky Mulder’ jibe to follow and folded her arms across her chest. 

“I prefer just Mulder. But yeah.”

Malone shook his head.

“Jeez man. You’re the last person I would expect to want to be involved in this case.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

Mulders tone was neutral, almost conversational but Scully saw the pulse suddenly start to throb at his temple. 

Stress.

Already he was stressed and they hadn’t even entered the fucking building.

Malone shrugged

“I was with the original team ten years ago. I saw what it did to you...”

Mulder turned away from him, side stepping both the issue and the question smoothly, just as though the older man hadn’t spoken at all and instead fixed his attention back on Roberts.

“Let’s get this done shall we?”

And ignoring the loaded glances now being traded between the task force agents, he swept passed them and entered the building.

After a beat, Scully made to follow him, but a hand on her arm held her back. Agent Roberts shook his head, the movement barely perceptible as he lowered his voice so she only just caught his words.

“Is he okay?”

“He’s fine”

They both knew she was lying.

XXXX

 

Scully shivered as she descended the dark staircase that led to the small basement store room below the dilapidated space that had once served as offices. Long since vacated, the place had that peculiar melancholy air that seemed to invade empty buildings, the air thick with a combination of dust and mildew.

And something else; something all too familiar to her after years of working in the forensic sciences.

Decay.

That cloying scent that was indescribable to anyone who had never experienced it firsthand - A sickly sweet smell that was impossible to ignore and even harder to eradicate. The body had lain undisturbed for around a week until pest control had been called by the occupants of the rundown upstairs apartment to find whatever animal had crawled down here to die.

What he had found was so much worse.

Stumbling as he had, over the decomposing body of Rachael Stevens. A pretty nineteen year old college student who had been reported as missing by her roommate ten days before her body was found. The body had been propped up against the wall in the far corner and like the victims of a decade before, the head had been almost completely severed from the body. No sexual assault. No other injuries aside from a few defensive marks on the backs of her hands. No ligature marks which suggested that no restraints had been used. Her life snuffed out before it had even really begun.

Scully tried and failed to remember life at age nineteen. Too much had happened in recent years to really remember life before Mulder. But certainly life would have been filled with all the exuberance of youth. Of promises to come, adventures to be had. Differences to make.

But not now. Not for one young woman who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and had paid the ultimate price.

Scully forced her attention back to the scene before her and watched as Mulder crouched down at the edge of the ugly stain that had seeped in to the rough concrete floor and which, no amount of scrubbing would ever eradicate. Rachael Stevens blood. Blood that had drained from her to form a crimson pool around her. Blood that had been used to create the portrait that had been found propped against the opposite wall. The image upon it in stark contrast to the horror that had visited this small, shadowed room.

The painting, like the body had been removed days ago.

But looking at Mulder now, it was clear that he was seeing the scene exactly as it had been meticulously recorded by the scenes of crime boys. Photographed, catalogued, written up. The end of a life reduced to a bunch of words and pictures. There was no dignity in this passing and Scully could see it clearly reflected in her partners face. As always, the scene was affecting him on a level she didn’t pretend to understand. It was almost as though he could immerse himself in a crime scene, and whether wanted or not, he could empathise with the victims, feel what they had felt during the final moments of life. It was seemingly beyond his control and she had recognised it early in their partnership. This side to her partner that was both untenable and terrible at the same time and one which damaged him just a little bit more each time it happened. 

Scully had the ability to disassociate herself from the more gruesome aspects of a case. Or at least most cases. It was a necessity born of her medical training; to be able to remain clinically detached and for the most part, coolly analytical. It was something she took for granted. And something Mulder was seemingly unable to do.

The three other agents had remained on the peripherals of the room along with Rob Roberts. They had already familiarised themselves with the scene and truthfully, Scully was unsure why Roberts had felt it necessary to bring them along, unless of course it was to watch Ole Spooky at work.

Mulder straightened up and flipped open the case file he held in his hand, scrutinising something within then settling once again to the bloodstain that marred the area around his feet. He did this several times before closing the file abruptly and looked across at Scully, his gaze intense, hazel eyes glittering in the stark light that emitted from the single bare bulb that hung from the middle of the ceiling.

“It’s not the same guy”

Continued Part 3


	3. Chapter 3

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Roberts’s incredulous tones cut through the sudden stunned silence that had greeted Mulders unexpected revelation, the sharpness of his words cutting in to dank atmosphere like verbal punctuation marks.

Scully flinched. She couldn’t blame him, because as accustomed as she was to her partners sudden huge leaps of logic, this seemed a little out there even for him, especially given that they’d been present at the crime scene less than five minutes and given the reaction their fellow agents had had when they had realised that Spooky was indeed in their presence, she just wished that for once, just for once, he would temper himself by just a notch.

But then again, it wasn’t who he was, wasn’t who he ever could be.

And right now, as his eyes went from one to another of the agents before him, not a single shred of self doubt was evident. In fact he seemed almost surprised that he would even be questioned on his assertion that not everything was as it had first appeared. To some it seemed like arrogance, but to those who knew him, it was merely an unshakable belief, a hunch if you will, that what was presented to him, what was processed and what the end result might be, were all totally separate.

“Agent Mulder?”

“What?”

Roberts waved his hand in the air, as though trying to put form to Mulders words.

“I saw the body Mulder, the portrait, the blood. It matches exactly with the previous victims, same M.O. same cause of death.....it’s the SAME GUY.”

Mulder smirked, refusing to be drawn.

“Okay it’s the same guy.”

He turned back to Scully.

“Let’s go.”

And without preamble he swept past the assembled agents, his footsteps receding as he left them in his wake. For just a heartbeat Scully considered making apology on his behalf, at the very least for his abrupt exit, but then she remembered the way they had looked at him when he had first been introduced to them. Knowing instinctively that her partner’s reputation would have preceded him anyway; that judgements and assumptions would already have been formed and that even if he’d walked in here and solved the fucking case for them right there and then, they still wouldn’t afford him any respect. He had lost that respect when he fell headlong in to the X-Files. 

Spooky Mulder, brilliant crackpot; aways good for a laugh at a seminar.

God forbid they would even try to take him seriously.

So Scully simply nodded, her own good manners preventing her from leaving without at least some verbal acknowledgment.

“Excuse me”

But it was all she afforded them before following her partner out the door as a final derisive voice followed her up the narrow staircase.

“All aboard the crazy train people....”

XXXX

 

By the time she stepped back in to the bright sunlight, Mulder was already waiting for her in the car, impatiently drumming a tattoo on the steering wheel with one hand whilst using the other to delicately fish sunflower seeds from the opened bag on the dash; needing the habitual and time honoured action to clear his thoughts and allow him to focus. Scully always marvelled at the way his brain worked – seemingly at a hundred miles per hour he had a unique ability to process information and neatly breakdown and categorize the smallest detail, but in order to really function at the top of his game, finding a way to occupy his mouth always seemed to be a necessity. An oral fixation born of God knows what and one she tried – and usually failed – to not take much notice of. The sight of Mulder working that small seed between his teeth, manipulating it with his lips as he sucked the salt off the casing before cracking it cleanly to release the prize inside made her think distinctly inappropriate thoughts about what the man could do with that mouth in less innocent situations. 

She hastily buried them.

“So what gives Mulder?”

He grinned then, clearly pleased with himself and Scully was hit by a sudden realisation that in some twisted way he got off on making them think he was wandering through life just one short step away from a room with cushioned walls and a made-to-measure jacket that tied at the back. But then again, she couldn’t really blame him. Too many years and too many predictable jibes thrown in his direction had made the ability to laugh at himself before others had the pleasure of doing so, almost second nature. A defence mechanism that meant he didn’t have to admit that sometimes, the jibes got wearing and the joke was getting just a little bit old.

“Want to go see some art Scully?”

“Hmmmm Mulder, why do I get the impression you aren’t offering me a nice lunch and the latest Jackson Pollock?”

Mulder grinned crookedly at her before turning his face slightly in order to expel the seed shell out the window and on to the ground below where it would no doubt join a dozen others.

“This is better than Pollock Scully. Trust me.”

And in all probability, she conceded to herself, it probably would be.

XXXX

 

Ninety minutes later, lunch was the last thing on either of their minds, because as interesting as Mulders little jaunt in to the art world turned out to be, it was also singularly the most sickening thing Scully had ever seen. And after almost six years working the X-Files, sickening had become almost commonplace.

But this was different somehow because the nine canvasses he had laid out along the wall of the large evidence room he had managed to snag for a couple of hours represented the last images the world would ever see of the nine victims of the Portrait Murderer. She wasn’t exactly sure just how he had managed to finagle them from the evidence stores but finagle them he had; and he had handled them carefully, almost reverently, ensuring that the clear plastic covering on each one remained wholly intact. For that small detail, Scully was infinitely thankful because she wasn’t sure she could stomach any part of her coming in to contact with them.

Each portrait bore the name of the victim and the date the painting was discovered, along with location and position all neatly type-written on a small rectangular label affixed to the top right-hand corner of each one and when first faced with them, Scully had swallowed heavily against a sudden feeling of nausea and focused instead on the label rather than what lay within.

But, as her need to analyse, to understand and to compartmentalise kicked in with a vengeance, she found herself strangely drawn to them. The skill required to create them was unmistakable and while she had seen photos of them, the photos had in no way captured the delicacy of the brushwork or the different textures created on the canvas below. And in other circumstances, in a different world where the desperate screams of the victims weren’t reverberating in her head as she imagined the sheer horror that had precluded the creation that was, in equal measure both stunningly beautiful and sadistically violent, she might have experienced a sense of wonderment at their complexity.

As it was though, she felt only revulsion.

“Hard to look at huh?”

Mulders tone was quiet. Sorrowful even and Scully met his eyes with hers, surprised to feel a sudden gathering of tears and a tightening in her throat. The tears remained in check but only just and she was grateful when Mulder rested his palm at the small of her back and turned her away, steering her towards a desk on to which he had spread the 8 x 10s of each murder. Taken before anything had been touched or moved, they gave a stark representation of exactly what the first on the scene would have been faced with. And as violent and horrific as they were, she found them somehow easier to deal with.

Death, even violent death was something she could detach herself much more easily from.

“See the similarities in each scene Scully”

Mulder pointed to each photo in turn.

“Each victim was propped up against a wall and without exception they were facing an open door..”

Scully watched his finger as it progressed from one photo to the next.

“Here, here, see here....and here. All nine victims were killed facing a door. And the portraits were also facing a door.” 

He began to pace, in a way she had seen him often do, when in the grip of a difficult case, sheer nervous energy made it hard for him to keep still.

“When I first began profiling the case, three victims had already been discovered and to me, the open door represented to the killer that somehow, if he put them in front of a door, they would be set free. That by killing them he was setting them free. The doors were never closed; they were always open wide and the position of each body was precise in every case. It never varied. There was always a door in front of them.”

He pointed to the final photograph on the row.

“Now tell me what you see Scully.”

A young woman, the latest victim, slumped against the wall, eyes wide open, unseeing, and the blood, so much blood spread around her like a crimson pool.

And then she saw it, exactly what Mulder had seen in that dark, derelict room of this morning.

The open door across the room, at right angles to the body.  
And as she gasped, Mulder leaned in closer, his golden eyes gone dark and intense.

“I’m telling you Scully; it’s not the same guy.”

“You mean it’s a copycat? But Mulder, how could that be? The details of the portraits were never made public....”

And her voice trailed off as sudden realisation hit her.

“But....but that would mean that whoever did this....would need inside knowledge, would need to have been around at the time.”

Mulder swept up the photographs, tapping them on the surface of the desk until they fell together in a tight, neat stack before finally acknowledging his partner.

“Exactly Scully.”

XXXXXXXXXXX

Scully had watched in silence as Mulder loaded the plastic-wrapped portraits on to the sectioned trolley he had used to transport them up from their basement resting place, calling the Agent in charge of the evidence store to let him know he could come and retrieve them and even though the evidence rooms were in a totally different subterranean area of the building, it still felt slightly strange to think that up until a few hours ago she had never known of their existence, stored just a few hundred feet from the office she had shared with him for so many years. 

Even more so, she wondered just how aware Mulder had been – whether he ever thought of them; had he ever chosen to look at them since his spectacular spiral in to the psychological abyss, trying to make sense of a conundrum so damaging that he had almost died at his own hand? Did they play a starring role in one of his many nightmares that came to plague him in the darkness of night; did he throw himself violently out of sleep with the images on those paintings imprinted on his psyche? 

Scully wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer; at least not in any real way because the thought of the mental anguish he must have suffered during the harrowing weeks and months where his every thought was consumed by the horror visited on him as he tried to find answers that might give rise to the unravelling of a killers mind, a killer who seemingly had no set rationale in the selection of his victims, filled her with a fear so intense it made her feel physically sick. How close had he actually got to unravelling that puzzle before he himself began to unravel?

She had seen him close to the edge before; too many times in fact over the course of their partnership. His unique ability to immerse himself in a case was both a blessing and a curse and there had been many occasions where she could only marvel at how rapidly he could connect the dots, eyes glittering with an almost maniacal intensity when he suddenly arrived at a conclusion that others were seemingly unable to even comprehend as to being relevant. But the flipside to that investigative high was equally as intense but also exceptionally damaging, both to him and those around him. Because Mulder couldn’t bear to fail; simply because each time he failed he was sharply reminded of his biggest failure of all – his inability as a twelve year old boy to save his sister. Scully was no psychologist but even she could see that every case, every killer brought to justice, every wrong that he righted, was just a small affirmation that he was indeed worthy; that even if he hadn’t saved her, there were innumerable others he could save.

It was why, even the hardest fought victories would continue to be worth the heavy price sometimes extolled upon him and why she knew that he would never give up; he simply didn’t have the ability to walk away, that the events in his past that had wreaked such havoc on his childhood continued to stalk beside him; a spectre of loss, of futility and of failure that would continue to destroy him in increments and she could only hope that eventually he might forgive himself enough to finally find peace within himself. Until that day came she would just continue to support him as best she could; or at least insomuch as he would allow her to.

“Scully?”

His voice cut through her musings and she actually felt herself start slightly, embarrassed almost that he had caught her thinking so intently about him and fearful he would see the anxiety she had felt since learning of his desire to once again be involved in a case that had almost been his undoing.

“You okay?”

She nodded, hastily rearranging her features before meeting his eyes, knowing instinctively that he didn’t need the added burden of her own uneasiness to add to the emotion that this case was surely stirring up for him. 

“I’m fine. I was just thinking maybe we should grab something to eat. It’s almost three o’clock.”

Mulder shook his head.

“I’m not hungry. You go though.”

“Mulder you need to eat.”

Mulder regarded the woman before him, accurately reading her expression of concern and as always, felt both gratitude and irritation wash over him in equal measure. Because even after six years in her company, he couldn’t quite reconcile the fact that anyone actually cared enough to berate him when he began to lose focus on himself as a priority. Too many years where no one had paid enough attention to his basic wellbeing had made it difficult to now hand over that responsibility to anyone else; even to her. And as always, her worry for him touched him in ways he could never hope to articulate; or at least not in a way that would seek to maintain the professional boundaries in their complicated relationship that they both strived so hard to preserve. 

“I need to eat? Mmmmm okay, this from the woman who sees bee pollen as a food group?”

As always, falling back on a dismissive quip even as his eyes locked with hers and silently thanked her yet again for her friendship, her protection of him; conversations with their eyes that somehow they had become so very adept at and which, to anyone else would be impercievable. Two damaged souls that somehow, when they were together, became whole again.

And just as Scully opened her mouth to answer his verbal challenge, ready to engage in the good natured sparring that said more to them than just words, the cel phone in Mulders pocket began to vibrate, the sharp trill of the ringtone following a split second later. He held up his hand in apology to his partner, the smile still on his lips as he pressed the phone to his ear.

“Mulder.”

Scully watched him intently, alarmed as she watched the smile fade in to nothing and the colour literally drain from his face. The conversation was excruciatingly one-sided; each word her partner uttered in response to the disembodied voice on the other end was terse and demanding.

“Where?” 

He motioned for Scully to hand him a pen and she quickly drew out the small notebook from her inside pocket and removed the biro held in the wire spiral that bound the pages together, hardly having time to extend it to Mulder before he had snatched it from her hands, his shoulder raised, tucking the phone beneath his jaw, holding it in place so as to free his hands. He slammed the notebook up against the nearest wall and scribbled a few words on to a randomly selected page in response to the information being relayed to him.

“We’ll be there in 30 minutes. Do not touch anything. Anything at all you understand? Okay. Yeah. Okay...” 

Scully watched with mounting concern as Mulder removed the phone from his ear, shoulders visibly tensing as he remained facing the wall, his head resting for just a heartbeat against its painted surface. And without even having to see him, Scully knew he had closed his eyes.

“Mulder?” 

She crossed the small space that separated them and softly closed her fingers around his suited bicep, exerting the merest pressure as she squeezed for just a moment before letting her palm follow the contours of his arm before it fell away in to thin air; the urge to grasp his hand almost too strong to resist. But there was no need. Her slight touch had been enough to reach him, to ground him once again, to bring him back; and she was rewarded when he turned back to face her. 

His face was pale, his eyes suddenly all pupil and Scully knew that the adrenaline was coursing around his body, that whatever news he had just received, it had provoked a sudden and punishing fear response within him and even as he tried to hide it from her, swallowing heavily before speaking she knew. Oh yeah she knew.

“There’s been another one. They’ve found another one Scully”

And just for a second she wanted to scream at him to let this go; to let someone else descend in to the darkness for once; to stop feeling so fucking responsible all the time. But she bit back the words that hovered dangerously close to the edge, because like it or not, this was who they were; that for better or worse, this was the life they had chosen and the path they were destined to tread. The fact that it was getting harder and harder to watch him each time he began to fall was her problem not his; the growing realisation that the lines between professional and personal were becoming ever more entwined making her stand rooted to the spot as he headed for the door, heart hammering as inexplicably she suddenly wanted to turn around and run as fast as she could in the opposite direction, away from him. Away from the emotions he evoked within her that she had tried so hard to bury beneath an illusion of propriety and protocol, emotions that more and more she was finding almost impossible to hide from him. And which she was all too aware, could destroy them both.

Continued part 4


	4. Part 4

By unspoken agreement, Scully opted to drive to the crime scene. Her car was closest, parked as it was just to the left of the elevator doors which opened on to the parking garage situated one level down from the basement. And for once, Mulder didn’t bother to argue as she headed straight for it , more pressing matters invading his consciousness that simple driving arrangements; not to mention the fact that he himself knew that he would be better employed using the journey time to mentally prepare himself for the next couple of hours and the ordeal ahead. And as they made the journey in silence, Mulder found his thoughts drifting.

*She had been wearing a pretty floral t-shirt, covered in a print of huge tea roses, faded blue jeans that turned over at the hem which, had she been standing, would have reached mid calf, the fashionable length of the day. Pink converse high tops to complete the summer outfit, an outfit chosen for a casual afternoon of shopping with her best friend, a nice lunch, a couple of drinks maybe. Only she had never made the date; reported as missing by her frantic husband less than twenty four hours later, taken seriously by the local PD after two days and finally discovered by a municipal worker a further three days after that. Just twenty three years old and four months married before her life was suddenly and viciously snuffed out, her blood a congealing mess around her body, as it mixed with the fluids that had begun to melt from her in the heat of the summer. Her eyes had been open when she died but by the time they had found her there were just empty sockets where once those unique windows to the soul had sparkled and flashed with the vibrancy of being; eaten away by the insects to which her body had given pulsating life. He remembered reaching a hand to her ravaged face to try to close her eyelids, to afford her a semblance of dignity where no dignity remained. Of course he hadn’t been able to. The damage to her was too great and too much time had passed. He hadn’t wanted to leave her, not now that she’d been found and he had turned away when they placed her in the anonymous black body bag, not able to watch as they lifted her with rough hands, just another body to be removed, catalogued and eventually forgotten. He had found out later that she had been in the early stages of pregnancy. Two lives taken as it turned out, one to be mourned for all she had been and one to be mourned for all they could have been. Her name had been Elice. Not Alice, but Elice; Such a pretty name. And for some reason she was the one victim that had remained in Mulders mind all these years, occasionally visiting him in his nightmares, staring at him with those sightless voids where once her eyes had been, reaching out to him as she beseeched him to keep searching; to keep trying; To not fail her as he had failed all the others. Her hair had been red. Like Scullys.*

Mulder swallowed heavily and rubbed a hand across his brow as though to rub the memories away, closing his eyes briefly against the sudden images from that bright summers day so long ago, the action eliciting a quick glance from Scully.

“You okay?”

“Yeah...I’m....I was just remembering. From before y’know?”

And Scully was mildly relieved that at least he was prepared to deviate slightly away from the standard response of being fine. Because for both of them that verbal fall-back usually meant they were hovering right on the edge emotionally or physically and in actuality had smashed straight through fine with hardly a second glance and were heading straight to fucking awful like an out of control steamroller. Her relief ended there though because she was suddenly aware of just how dreadful her partner looked and she didn’t need him to tell her that he was desperately apprehensive about just exactly how this revisiting of a scene that a decade ago had wrought such havoc on him would affect him today.

Sure, time had passed, he had changed; mentally he had to be stronger and more prepared than when he had been a young field agent, still relatively innocent to the harm the human race could inflict upon each other. He had seen things these past ten years, seen things that had quietly and insidiously chipped away at that incorruption and left him in no doubt that true evil wasn’t a product of an overactive imagination but which truly existed and walked amongst them all, side by side, step by step, every hour of every day just waiting to reveal itself in all its fearsome renown. 

“Do we know anything about the victim?”  
Mulder shrugged.

“Not a whole lot. Female. Young. Found in the bathroom of a derelict house by two boys.”

“Boys?”

Mulder swallowed.

“Kids.”

“Oh God Mulder.”

They didn’t speak for the remainder of the journey. 

XXXX

 

Despite trying to mentally prepare himself for what he knew only too well would confront them at the crime scene, Mulder was unsurprised to feel the bile rise to the back of his throat, a rolling feeling of nausea that, had there been anything in his stomach, he had no doubts at all that he would now be expelling it quietly in some corner of this hell on earth he now found himself in.

The kill was fresh; the coppery, heavy scent of blood so thick, so cloying that he could almost touch it. The blood that had pooled on to the linoleum floor still tacky and not yet dried to the ugly maroon colour Mulder knew so well. He felt his eyes drawn to the set of small footprints that tracked away from the blood and towards the door, footprints, it had already been ascertained, belonging to the sneakered feet of the eleven year old boy who had discovered the body along with his eight year old brother.

Screaming for help as they fled the decrepit house they had alerted a passerby who had immediately called the police. The two boys were currently under the care of the local ER – In deep shock, by all accounts one almost catatonic. And Mulder didn’t need a shrink’s opinion to tell him that for those kids, childhood innocence would never be regained. That they were now damaged in ways that no one could possibly conceive and an after-school adventure in to the neighbourhood ghost house had yielded far more damaging consequences than the chance to regale their classmates with tales of bravery and daring-do.

The victim, was also young, so fucking young he had initially thought she was a child herself. Just like the other victim she was propped up against a wall, the wound that gaped from beneath one ear and curved around her delicate skin to meet the other all too obvious as to cause of death. Her tongue was swollen and lolling from her partially open mouth. Blonde hair, shoulder length, the ends now scarlet as though they had been dip dyed. Her eyes were closed and for that small mercy, he sent up a silent thank you to whatever higher power had spared him that chilling expression of emptiness unique to the dead.

The painting was resting against her, as though she were displaying it for them to compliment, and even as he fought back the revulsion that threatened to overwhelm him, Mulder began to mentally map the scene in his mind, assimilating, comparing, analysing; His excellent memory dragging details of past crime scenes retained unconsciously for over a decade. He was unaware of the other Agents around him, a cursory acknowledgement of Roberts on entering had been his only concession to the fact that he wasn’t alone in the room.

And even though the whole set up was similar to the scenes of years ago, made no doubt to resemble the past murders, Mulder knew without question that everything about this room was wrong. So wrong that he could barely believe he was the only one who could see it. So glaringly obvious were the discrepancies that already, he was beginning to connect the dots, to see what others, even Scully could not. The portrait especially drew his eyes. 

The image of a smiling woman, eyes dancing, the pupils deep and fathomless, inviting him in, inviting him to make sense of this newest conundrum; to absorb himself wholly in the process, to understand the cause and effect.

Scully watched her partner from across the room. Watched as he quite literally withdrew from the corporeal and fell headlong in to the grim tableau before him. His brow furrowed, his eyes intense as he prowled around the small area like a graceful feline, his movements exhibiting a fluidity that belied the rigidity of his posture as his conscious and subconscious jostled for space in his mind. To see him like this both fascinated and repelled her, because it was almost as if the Mulder she knew, the Mulder she had known for so long, simply disappeared in to himself, leaving just a hint of the man he was. He absorbed the darkness like a sponge, welcoming it almost even as Scully realised that everything she was witnessing was in no palpable way, at all under his control. And she suddenly understood with a blinding clarity, that this was a Mulder she had never fully witnessed before; that when Skinner had described the Mostow case as a walk in the park compared to this he had been correct in every respect. Because as hard and as terrifying as it had been to see Mulder battling with himself back then, this was something completely different; because in the space of a heartbeat, her partner as she knew him was just gone. As absent from her as if he had exited the room and left her behind. And with the realisation came a knowledge that she had never fully understood before – that he was, to all intents and purposes, unreachable to her or anyone else right now. It was a sobering thought.

And she found she couldn’t take her eyes off him, his intensity, his sheer magnetism at that moment rendering her totally without freewill as she watched him work, until suddenly, in the blink of an eye, something broke free from him, and Scully watched as he dipped gracefully down on to his haunches, observing the portrait from the edges of the spilled blood, carefully ensuring he didn’t contaminate the scene in any way. His expression still intense, but his body seemed more relaxed, lacking the tension of only a few seconds ago. 

“Has anyone seen this?”

The question floated around the room, not directed at anyone in particular but at the same time directed at everyone. Scully watched Roberts trade glances with one of his task force, a tall slender youngish man with piercing eyes and a harsh army-style buzz cut and adept as she was at reading faces, she saw nothing but a casual dismissal of Mulders words, barely concealing her annoyance at his drawling response.

“Okay Spooky, what you got for me now?”

But Mulder didn’t seem to notice the derision in the senior Agent’s tone in fact he didn’t break his focused stare from the painting before him, his brow furrowed, even now his mind working to make sense of what he saw, or thought he saw.

Scully reached him first.

“What is it?”

She directed her gaze to the painting, but to her, it looked almost exactly like all the other portraits, this one just as sickening to her as its grisly counterparts, more so actually due to its close proximity to the victim. It made it more real somehow. Mulder tilted his head to one side, stretching his left arm out as he pointed vaguely with one long finger at an area just to the base of the right ear, hard to see at first, but then, as she cleared her mind of the subject of the painting, peeling back the layers to enable her to see what he saw, she stepped back; mouth dropping open as suddenly it was all she could see.

A number. Almost lost amongst the swirling bloodied lines. The number six. Painted so as to merge with the background, but once seen, once acknowledged was now impossible to ignore.

Mulder nodded slowly, knowing without needing to question her that she saw it too. Affirmation that he wasn’t imagining things not there.

“He’s leaving clues.”

His voice was strained, unable as he was to prevent a slight tremor to his words, sounding exhausted all at once as he abruptly rose from his crouched position and rubbed the back of his knuckles against his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut as he screwed his face up in to a tired grimace. His colour was alarmingly grey, beads of sweat standing out on his skin that Scully knew had nothing to do with the heat of the day and she lightly touched his free hand, brushing her fingers against his even as she felt the eyes of their colleagues on them. Maybe in different circumstances she would have felt awkward, embarrassed even; but right now her entire focus was centred on her partner.

“Let’s get some air okay?”

She kept her voice low, not wanting to draw more attention to him than was already afforded; wanting in some substantive way to prevent him from giving them even the scantest ammunition that they might use against him later and she was rewarded when Mulder acquiesced, following her out of the room, leaving the demons in his wake. For now at least.

XXXXXXXXXXX

 

Despite only being in the house for a matter of thirty minutes or so, Mulder was unsurprised to find that, as was usually the case, word had spread like wildfire around the quiet neighbourhood, eliciting the ever growing crowd of people who were straining as close as they could against the yellow crime scene tape that stretched around the perimeter of the grounds, the yellow standing out sharply against the summer green of the unkempt but flourishing garden.

He would never understand the macabre fascination the general public had in these kinds of grisly situations. That the majority of these people who were excitedly whispering to each other whilst feigning horror and forced compassion in equal measure, would, in all probability, be so unprepared to actually face the scene head on that if they even caught a glimpse of it, they would be scarred forever in ways they couldn’t even begin to comprehend. These same people would return to their homes eventually, when their temporary interest had waned and while the grim discovery by two young boys would no doubt be the hot topic for a few weeks, it would simply just lessen in importance as the daily trivialities of life once more took over. Sure, they would probably be extra vigilant for a while about locking their doors, closing their windows tightly. Might feel a prickle of unease if they found themselves alone, or refuse to let the kids out to wander any further than their own back yards; but complacency would return pretty quickly. Because after all, these kinds of things only happened to other people right?

It soon became clear also, that the press had caught wind of what had occurred and were hovering on the peripherals like vultures circling an endless blue sky, just waiting for the opportunity to swoop down and take advantage of even the slightest weakness; to devour information and to benefit from another tragic story. Mulder hated the press, though even he would have to concede that at times, they had no option but to utilise them to either launch an appeal or even just to get information out there. It was an uneasy allegiance that sometimes barely maintained the mutual respect that the co-dependency required and he had always found dealing with them to be emotionally draining; each word spoken carefully , mentally prepared and broken down to ensure no misinterpretation could be written down or recorded; translated later in to print to sensationalise rather than inform, because sensationalism sold more newspapers, attracted more viewers, than simple recounting of the facts at hand ever could. 

Mulder recognised most of the faces from old – the roving reporters that seemed to have an inherent ability to find themselves always just a few short minutes from the next big story. And while he rarely dealt directly with them aside from the odd casual dismissal here and there to their probing questions, the faces were all too familiar to him. By the interest in his and Scullys appearance on the cracked concrete path that led from the house to the taped perimeter, it was clear that the recognition was mutual. One reporter in particular, an old timer on the investigative circuit of indeterminate age and even more indeterminate fashion savvy, jostled his way to the front of the pack the minute his eyes lit upon the two agents, their suited, immaculately turned out presence in sharp contrast to his own slightly shabby visage. But Mulder knew from past situations that this guy wasn’t to be underestimated though, because his unkempt appearance belied a sharply honed ability for getting right to the centre of a story; a way of asking the wrong questions to arrive at the right answers; and his voice suddenly cut cleanly through the rest of the excited babble as he locked on to Mulder and as was usual, cut straight through the crap and went for the jugular.

“Agent Mulder, they’re saying the Portrait Killer is back for round two...”

“No comment”

“Is it true this is the second identical killing in less than a week?”

“No comment”

“Aw c’mon Mulder, give me something here. The public have a right to know.”

Mulder though, refused to be drawn.

“No comment Richie. You know the drill.”

They had reached the tape by now, almost, almost at the point of escape; but without warning, the questioning abruptly changed tack.

“So Mulder, you think you might manage to last the distance this time around?”

And Mulder suddenly stopped dead in his tracks, almost causing Scully to collide with his suited back. And she placed a steadying hand at his elbow, an involuntary action that sought to warn him to keep his cool. To not rise or respond in any way to a question designed to knock him off balance, to drop his guard. How the hell he even knew to ask the question was beyond her comprehension, because Mulders medical records were sealed, and certainly not accessible through normal channels; and certainly not at all relevant to the events that had transpired in the building behind them. She sent him a silent communication, hoping he would pick up on the slight pressure her fingers applied in warning, knowing how volatile her partner could be, especially when thrown a verbal curveball such as this.

Don’t react.

 

And despite a sudden stiffening, a tensing of the muscles beneath her touch, she sent up a silent message of thanks when she heard the next words out of Mulders mouth, albeit in a tone that could probably smash straight through concrete given the right circumstances.

“I said No comment.”

XXXX

 

Scully navigated the car a few blocks until she had put a mile or so between them and the house and then abruptly pulled over, resting one hand loosely on the steering wheel, the other she passed briefly over her eyes. The scene outside the house had shaken her slightly; to hear a relative stranger give reference to Mulders inability to see the original case through to the end had totally jolted her out of her habitual cool so it must have, she conceded, been doubly shocking for her partner.

In fact, Mulder wasn’t looking so hot right now. His eyes were far away, his jaw set, tension radiating from his body which was no doubt a combination of the gruesome scene they had both been party to in the house and also the slightly surreal scenes outside. Scully touched his arm, just slightly, barely making contact but it was enough to elicit a response and as Mulder suddenly focused, a slight frown darkening his brow, Scully was almost certain that he hadn’t even been aware that she had stopped the car. But as his eyes locked with hers, she was somewhat encouraged to see the ghost of a smile that played for a second across his face.

“Well that was interesting” he supplied wryly.

Scully didn’t respond, instead she flipped open the glove compartment and withdrew a water bottle from its depths, uncapping it and taking several swigs; the water was slightly tepid but still better than nothing. When she finished she offered the bottle to Mulder, noticing with a certain measure of amusement that he didn’t bother wiping the top before he placed it to his lips. She was sure there was some Freudian meaning attached to it, but then again, since this was the man that over the years had touched, tasted, prodded and flicked all manner of disgusting substances off the ends of his fingertips, it was more likely just his inherent dismissal of the repercussions such cross contamination could cause that prevented him from even the most cursory attempts at basic hygiene. She chose though to ignore it.

“So what now?”

Mulder shrugged and passed her the bottle back.

“Thanks. Um I dunno. I’m not sure our acting ASAC is exactly welcoming us with open arms in to the fold.”

Scully arched her eyebrow up

Yeah no kidding Mulder.

“So?”

Mulder smiled in response, his face lightening.

“I think your place. We’ve got some cross checking to do and your couch is bigger than mine.”

His words, though not wholly unexpected, filled her with a certain measure of dismay because as much as she tried to hide it, the day had been a long one and the prospect of employing yet more evening hours sounded exhausting when all she really wanted to do was to sink in to a hot bath and attempt to wash away the feelings of revulsion this case was heaping upon her; and then to sleep, to sink in to oblivion even if only for a few hours.

“In fact....”

Mulder unbuckled his seat belt even as he made the decision for both of them.

“Why don’t you relax and I’ll drive back?”

And not for the first time, Scully wondered just when they had become so adept at reading each other that questions and explanations were no longer always required. Because he knew, knew that if he offered to drive, she would be asleep within minutes; that if she could rest now, it would go some way to sustaining her during the long evening ahead.

“Thanks”

And then that smile again, filled with a gentle respect, of an understanding of her that no one else had.

“You’re welcome.......and Scully?” He paused, searching for the right words; as always finding it harder to put in to words what he felt in his heart. Wanting to acknowledge her; the way she always seemed to be there to catch him, to ground him but not knowing how to add weight to the unspoken platitude without it sounding trite.

“For....y’know.......” Mulder waved his hand vaguely “For having my back...”

Scully smiled.

“Always.”

Continued part 5


	5. Part 5

Scully glanced at her watch and groaned, removing her glasses she stretched her arms above her head, arching her back as she did so in an attempt to pop the knots of muscle that had formed during the long hours she had sat with her partner poring over the many reports, witness statements, and information relating to the case as it had played out over a decade ago. Meticulously they had listed and cross referenced any individual from any agency who had been involved in the investigation then and, where possible tracked and catalogued exactly where they were now. It had been a painstaking process, especially since over a hundred officers from different agencies had been flagged up, but by a simple process of elimination; they had finally narrowed the list down to less than forty. 

Or at least, Mulder has started to. But at around midnight, Scully had seen him visibly start to wilt and given that he had, in all probability, managed precious little sleep the last few nights, she had urged him over to the couch to rest for a while.

He had argued of course. His stubborn male pride preventing him from admitting even such a very basic need, but eventually he had conceded defeat and stretched out, arm thrown loosely over his eyes to shield him from the light and assured Scully that he wasn’t going to sleep; that he was just going to rest his eyes for a few minutes.

An hour later she had quietly removed the soft woollen throw from where she kept it permanently folded over the back of the couch and draped it over him as he slept, apparently dead to the world he hadn’t even stirred. 

And now, with her partner still sleeping and her own eyes beginning to droop, she decided it was time to call it a night herself, pausing for a moment to check on him as she passed by; twitching the blanket back in place where it had fallen off his shoulder, studying the contours of his face in the blue light that softened the lines that had relaxed fully in his repose. It was a Mulder she didn’t get to see very often; a Mulder removed of the stresses and complex emotions that frequently stole the light from his eyes and deepened the lines on his face and right at that moment, she was glad that he had stayed, even if the decision had not been wholly under his control.

Because normally when on a case, they could reasonably expect to be within shouting distance of each other, especially at night as they slept in their respective rooms, knowing should one need the other, they were mere footsteps away. But this case, situated in such close proximity to their usual working lives, negated the need for motel rooms; which in turn meant that, if her partner started to fall, she would be totally unaware until the damage had been done and the chances of him confiding in her if he’d had a rough night were slim to none. It just wasn’t his way.

But for tonight at least, he was here; and that was something.

 

XXXX

 

Mulder, moaned softly in his sleep, the blanket that covered him suddenly feeling heavy, constricting even, and even as it slipped to the floor, the sweat began to bead his forehead as somewhere deep inside him, he began to dream.

*Footsteps, his footsteps, echoing and reverberating against the stark white walls and institutional grey of the linoleum floor beneath his feet.   
A featureless corridor with nothing to distinguish one plain white door from the next stretched endlessly in all directions. Each door he flung open yielding nothing more substantial than empty space.  
She was here somewhere though. He knew she was here because he had heard her screaming, calling out his name; her voice so desperate and full of fear, full of pain. And her pain reached in to the very core of him, compressing his heart with a cold, hard embrace born of the knowledge that somehow, he had caused that hurt and that he had to find her; to save her before she was taken away from him as she had been taken so many times before.  
His breath came in ragged gasps that constricted his lungs, burning his throat as he kept moving, running down that relentless corridor on legs that cramped and spasmed with every new agonising step forward.  
And yet no matter how fast he ran, how hard he pushed himself, the corridor still stretched before him; a seemingly infinitesimal blur of white and grey with no end apparent. But he kept going, knowing with absolute certainty that he couldn’t fail; that he had to reach her before they did, before she became lost to him. Before they simply removed her from his life as though she had never been; removing his ability to exist, to breath, to fight right along with her.   
But eventually the exhaustion overtook the will to carry on, rendering him still; silent suddenly aside from the sound of his harsh gasping sobs that had arrived unbidden to tear him apart where he stood.  
Until  
“MULDER!”  
And he realised that somehow he had found her, that the sweet sound of her calling to him was now close, so very close as the door in front of him began to swing slowly open, enticing him in with promises of her; a smile lighting up his face as he realised that against all the odds, somehow, unfathomably he could save her; that he could make things right again.  
But as he entered the room, the smile abruptly died on his lips; the sight of his partner sat up on the hospital bed. Her incredible eyes no longer vibrant and alive but now dull and dead either side of the pulsating mass of tissue that strained sickeningly against the smooth porcelain of her skin, the cancer a sickening, living entity that sought to destroy and defile her from within.  
And further below, the deep, glistening wound that stretched from either side of her jaw, all the way across her slender neck, deep enough for the delicate vertebrae to show in pale contrast to the blood that still pumped from the wound; a never ending sea of crimson that flowed unchecked to darken and stain everything it touched.  
As slowly, so excruciatingly slowly, Scully raised those fathomless eyes to his, her expression a combination of hurt and accusation.  
“You’re too late Mulder.”  
Her words piercing him so deeply he felt physical pain as something within his mind tore free, sending him crashing to his knees, slamming his hands over his face even as he began to scream.*

 

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

 

For just a second as Scully’s eyes flew open she thought the screaming came from her; Disorientated and sleep-fogged as she was, she was sure that her hard fought repose had abruptly ended, as it so often did, with one of the many nightmares that seemed to plague her since her cancer had gone in to remission. Mostly she didn’t remember the specific details, but would often bolt awake, heart racing, a strangled cry stuck in her throat and more often than not, her hands pressed against her face in an effort to stem the life force that streamed from her nose. Of course there was never any blood to be seen, the dreams just a manifestation of the prior mental trauma she had undergone when in the grip of the disease; a time when she truly thought she was dying, that she would one day go to sleep and not wake up again. Mulder had rationalised that, in all likelihood, those past anxieties were probably the cause of her frequent insomniac episodes, that somewhere buried deep in her psyche was the memorialized terror that she would die in her sleep and therefore her subconscious kept her awake to ensure it couldn’t happen. It made perfect sense to her and the fact that she found it so easy to sleep when she was with him bore out his theory; because Mulder would always protect her, that he would find a way somehow to save her just as he had always done and with the fleeting thought came another, much more insistent.

*Mulder is screaming*

The realisation slammed in to her even as she was automatically flinging back the covers and making for the door, the sound of her partner’s distress momentarily stealing the breath from her body and forming gooseflesh on her exposed skin that had nothing to do with the cooler temperature of evening. The sound was almost animalistic; a high pitched keening cry full of raw pain that she had never heard from him before and given that she had soothed him through countless nightmares in the past, she already knew that whatever horror had manifested itself as he slept it was bad. Very bad.

Even so she was wholly unprepared by the sight that greeted her when, a couple of seconds later, she almost skidded to a halt a few feet from where Mulder lay on the hardwood floor, his body curled in to a defensive foetal position, eyes wide open, staring fixedly ahead through the tears that shimmered within them to match the salty tracks that pooled against his fingers and found a path down his face. By the illumination of the lamp Scully had left on for him, not wanting to awaken him when she went to bed by changing the light level in the room, she could see that the clear fluid of his tears held a pinkish tinge by the time they reached his jaw line. A pinkish tinge which, as she quickly realised, was Mulders own blood that seeped from beneath his fingernails which were clawing cruelly and viciously at his face.

The sight literally rooted her to the spot, just for an instant, as she forced herself to tamper down her panic, to not startle him in any way because despite his eyes being open, she was in no doubt whatsoever that it was nothing more than an illusion and her partner was gripped tightly in a nightmare world, deeply asleep, his eyes unseeing in any percipient way. She had never seen him quite like this – and she found to her mortification that for probably the first time in their long partnership, that she was afraid of him. For the merest instant she was almost afraid to wake him up, apprehensive as to whether the violence he was wreaking upon himself, might, in his confusion, transfer over to her; that she would become the new manifestation of his fear.

*Don’t be so fucking ridiculous*.

And just as quickly, the irrational fear was replaced with an absolute certainty that he would never hurt her, that he could never hurt her. At least not physically; emotionally they had both been guilty of wounding each other in the past, seemingly unable to give each other what they both desperately sought. Fearing the consequences such an admission would broker both for their partnership and for the opportunities that might be presented to those who sought to destroy them both; many words left unspoken that might, in some small way have helped heal them both, helped to chase the nightmares away.

Without further thought, Scully dropped to her knees and roughly grabbed at Mulders hands, painfully aware of his hooked fingers that dug in to the skin precariously close to his eyes; knowing that the damage he had already done was insignificant compared to the damage he could do. He fought her of course, trying to pull away from her with a strength that almost caused her to pitch forwards, to lose her grip of him.

“MULDER”

The word was terse, strident even, delivered with the knowledge that no cajoling whisper or gentle touch of his arm was going to bring him out of this one with any haste and while Scully didn’t yet know the mechanics of what had brought him to this point, she was wholly aware that he needed to wake up in quick time before he did himself more damage. The aftermath would be equally as horrific she was sure, but the aftermath could be dealt with in a more gentle way; that the soothing of him would come later. She held on to him as he scooted backwards, grateful for the presence of the sofa which impeded further escape because despite her good physical shape, in a straight battle of strength against strength, simple commonsense told her that Mulder, with his greater height and muscle bulk would win out every time. The sudden contact of his back against the sofa edge, coupled with her own grip of him and her insistent voice, commanding him sharply to wake up, all had the desired effect and Scully let out the breath she hadn’t even been aware she was holding as right before her, Mulder blinked once and instantly came back. The return though was painful as he snatched his hands away from her and immediately covered his face, forcing back the demons that had clearly followed him from the darkness within; rubbing them against his skin for just an instant before jerking his head back with a strangled cry of pain. His hands, when he held them in front of him were smeared with fresh blood.

 

Scully shuffled forwards, taking care not to make any sudden movements lest she add to his confusion and panic.

“It’s okay.....you scratched your face. You were having a nightmare and cried out...”

*Screaming. He was screaming*.

The sound of his anguish was still echoing within her and Scully was pretty sure that it would return to haunt her own dreams for many nights to come. Because while she had heard him shout, plead, even emit huge wracking sobs that sometimes seemed to have no end when in the grip of a nightmare, the screaming was a new experience and one, which if she were honest with herself, had scared the living shit out of her. Mulder just sat, turning his hands over as though to affirm in his own mind just what she were telling him were true, eyes blank and empty as his mouth hung half open, slack and disbelieving and all the while, his chest rose and fell at an alarming rate as he desperately tried to suck in enough oxygen to calm his body, trembling as he was from the surge of adrenaline that had overtaken him just minutes before.

Scully gently rested the palm of her hand on his thigh, exerting just enough pressure to get his attention, rewarded when he dragged his eyes toward her, slowly gaining back some of the focus that had been missing from his expression when he had been forced to awaken so abruptly, but she was still painfully aware of the way his body trembled, a combination of mild shock and the sheer numbing terror that all too clearly continued to radiate from him in waves.

“You’re okay Mulder....it’s okay but you have to slow your breathing down or you’re going to pass out.”

Her voice was low, earnest even, cajoling and infused with such concern that without having to even attempt to do anything more, it was enough for Mulder to finally close his eyes and take in a deep, shuddering breath, exhaling slowly before repeating the process, concentrating all his energy on calming, on letting go of the lingering fear that still threatened to overwhelm him. But slowly, painfully, he regained a semblance of control and finally let his head fall back against the softness of the cushioned seat edge that still held him in position.

“Jesus” he muttered

Scully found herself aching for him, hearing the quiet desperation in his voice, wanting to comfort him but not knowing just how much he wanted or would even accept physical contact at this point in time; so she simply reached toward him and delicately ran her outstretched fingertips along his jaw line before pressing two fingers to his pulse point, feigning detachment as she checked that he was indeed calming down, that the crisis had passed. And she knew him well enough to be able to read his reaction to her touch, the way he inclined his head down to try to capture her hand and keep it against him; telling her without question, with unspoken words, what he needed from her and even as she reached for him, pulling him against her, feeling the way his arms wrapped around her waist and his head buried in to her shoulder, that whatever else had featured in his nightmare, she knew with a blinding certainty that she had played a starring role.

Oh Mulder

The realisation almost caused her to break down right along with him as he finally spoke, his voice muffled against her, displaying a vulnerability, an honesty that she rarely heard from him because like her, he was more than adept at burying his fears, hiding from her; hiding from himself and sometimes Scully wondered just how much they could both be reasonably expected to take before they simply started to come apart at the seams and just disappeared in to the strangulating ether of their own distress.

“I thought I’d lost you.”

His words provoked such a flood of protective emotion within her that for a few seconds she just couldn’t respond, knowing as she did, as she always had, that his greatest fear always was that she would somehow be taken from him, just as she had been taken so many times already, but that one day, no matter what he did, how hard he tried to save her, that her absence in his life would become a permanent state; that he would be alone again as he had been so many times in his life. But she could also sense there was more to it, that what she had witnessed in him tonight couldn’t be explained in such simple terms. But she found she couldn’t bring herself to question him on it, inexplicably afraid of what his answer might be and telling herself that it wouldn’t be fair to push him on it at this point didn’t make her feel any less cowardly; any less ineffective. So instead she dropped her lips to the crown of his head, feeling his sleep-mussed hair tickling her chin.

“I’m right here Mulder; and I’m not going anywhere.”

XXXX

 

He had watched earlier in the evening, watched them exit the car. The way Mulder had held the door open for her, guided her forwards with his palm resting gently against the small of her back, taking smaller strides to ensure she kept pace with him, stride for stride that belied the obvious and marked difference in their heights. The way she tilted her head slightly up even as he tilted his slightly down, to ensure they kept eye contact with each other as they made their way to the steps that led to Scully’s apartment.

He had observed them a lot over the last few months, his focus initially on Mulder as the bitter need for revenge writhed and burned within him, never dreaming that over time, he would come to recognise that killing him could never be punishment enough. That as he observed them both together a realisation that he was being presented with a unique opportunity to meter out a much more fitting justice to this man. To make him suffer as he himself had suffered. By taking away his sole purpose for living. Removing the very heart of him and to leave him existing in a permanent living hell with no end or absolution, to ensure that every time he closed his eyes, the only image he would ever see would be of her, his perfect opposite and object of his unwavering devotion, broken and bleeding and violated.

That this man would learn the true consequences of his previous failures, of the fact he had walked away when he should have stayed, that by giving up he had denied her the justice she deserved.

Well now justice would be served. 

Because he shouldn’t have walked away. 

And now he would suffer for it. 

Finally, Fox Mulder would suffer like he’d never suffered before.

Continued Part 6


	6. Part 6

The strident tones of the digital alarm clock elicited a strangled groan from Scully as, eyes still closed, she leaned over to the side, arm outstretched to quieten it, not yet ready to face the day. Her limbs felt heavy with sleep, a headache already beginning to settle at the back of her head, corresponding with the dull throbbing pain that stretched from the middle of her back, up through her shoulders and radiated through her neck. Despite stretching though, her fingers encountered only fresh air and she realised with a sigh that she must be too far away to reach it, shifting her body almost unconsciously to roll closer to the source of the sound, needing to quieten it before her headache escalated. But as she began to roll, the bed suddenly disappeared and for just a second she felt herself teetering on the edge, a sickening wave of vertigo crashing over her as she felt herself beginning to fall over the edge of.....something.

And then, a pair of strong arms encircled her and pulled her back from the threatened abyss. It was enough to bring her straight in to full wakefulness as, just for a second, fear and confusion flooded her senses in equal measure, until she realised that the arms belonged to Mulder; that he was holding her spooned against him on the sofa, his back pressed against the cushions and her back, in turn, pressed against him. 

Despite herself, she felt hot colour flood her features as she realised where she was; dressed only in thin cotton pyjamas, the buttoned-up top having ridden up her torso slightly, exposing her midriff and the soft white skin beneath, lying in her partner’s arms, the feel of his palm against her exposed skin sending a jolt of white hot electricity through her that was so intense she was surprised she didn’t emit sparks from the soles of her feet. The feeling was both intensely pleasurable and acutely embarrassing and despite herself, embarrassment won the day and sent her twisting out of Mulders embrace in one fluid, graceful movement, realising finally, that the shrill electronic tone that had awoken her, was in fact, not her alarm clock at all; she swiftly got to her feet and crossed over to the desk where, the night before she had left her cell phone.

“Scully.”

 

Thankfully her voice held no hint of the confusion she had felt only moments before and, as she immediately recognised the identity of the caller, sent up a silent prayer of thanks that she sounded – to herself at least – completely normal.

“Agent Scully, I’ve been trying to reach Mulder. Is he with you?”

For a split second she panicked, unsure as to exactly what he meant by the question. Yes Mulder was with her.....but did he mean with her as in relationship with her? He had to have heard the rumours and whether groundless or not, there had been several times when Scully had caught him watching her and Mulder together, a slightly quizzical expression on his face as though trying to figure them out. He had though, never asked either one of them outright as to whether their partnership transcended the strict boundaries set by the Bureau and Scully had wondered sometimes if he was afraid of what the answer would be. Because as their superior Agent, any transgression in that regard would mean he would have no choice but to separate and reassign them to different partners; and Scully knew that he would try to avoid that at all costs. The fact that, physically at least, nothing had ever happened between them seemed immaterial because she knew that if she were asked point blank about her feelings for Mulder, she would be frighteningly transparent in her responses.

She glanced over her shoulder at him, sat on the edge of the sofa, staring intently at the floor, seemingly uninterested in the conversation unfolding before him as he blinked several times in an effort, Scully imagined, to throw off the exhaustion that seemed to radiate from him, so palpable she could almost touch it. He was frighteningly pale aside from the two long rents that stood out lividly against his skin; evidence of the nightmare that had gripped him just a few short hours ago and which, she was sure, had prevented him from falling back to sleep again. Sleep didn’t come easily to this man and she could count on the fingers of one hand the amount of times she had actually heard him admit to sleeping through more than a few hours without his insomnia kicking in and right now, she suspected that any kind of rest over the last couple of days had been hard fought and wholly ineffective in any real sense. 

“Agent Scully?”

Scully dragged her attention back to the voice on the other end of the phone.

“Um yes, he’s here Sir. We were working late last night on the Portrait case and by the time we had finished it was past midnight and so..”

“Save it Scully. I need you both in my office asap with anything you’ve managed to dig up so far.”

“Sir?”

Scully couldn’t keep the trepidation from her voice and her concern racked up another notch as she heard Skinner sigh heavily, imagining him massaging the bridge of his nose right where his ever present glasses occasionally dug in to his flesh and caused pressure headaches. 

“Just get here Scully.....oh and Scully? I would advise that it be pertinent to keep Agent Mulders attention away from the morning newspapers on your way in” 

 

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 

Mulder threw the newspaper on to Skinners desk with enough force that it sent a pot of pencils skittering across the polished surface, the contents spilling and rolling in all directions before finally dropping one by one on to the carpeted floor below.

“This is fucking bullshit.”

Skinner narrowed his eyes at the profanity, but chose in this instance to disregard it even while being aware that there were few agents under his command who would receive the same benefit for such verbal insubordination. And in reality, while not the most sensitive of men; at that moment he could fully understand Mulders anger. He had felt similar emotions when his secretary had silently deposited that morning’s copy of the Washington Herald on his desk, just as she did every morning, without fail at 8am sharp. Today though, his customary thank you had died on his lips as he saw the image of his wayward Agent staring up at him from the grainy surface of the front page. He recognised the photo as being a stock image of Mulder and Scully from when they were briefly assigned to Domestic Terrorism – taken for God knows what reason, it showed them in full FBI garb, right down to the navy jackets with the letters starkly contrasted in bright sunshine yellow. The original photograph had caught them in mid conversation, Mulder looking down at Scully, arms outstretched as he was no doubt trying to convince her of something and she in turn had tilted her head slightly in order to make eye contact. If Skinner remembered correctly, there had been just a ghost of an indulgent smile on her face. Unfortunately he had no way of knowing, because Scully had been cut from the photo, leaving the image of Mulder looking for all the world like he was simply ranting to himself. The headline ‘Profiling the Portraits’ had been pretty ambiguous, the accompanying article had not; detailing with frightening accuracy Mulders reaction to the case that had unfolded a decade before and which had almost killed him, questioning the judgement of the Bureau in allowing an Agent who fell apart so completely to now revisit the case, to once again help to lead an investigation and man hunt for a monster who had remained dormant for so long, who had evaded capture by one of the brightest young minds the FBI had ever seen and the subsequent effect it had had on him. 

In itself, that was bad enough, but the article went on to detail Mulders work on the X-Files, his unshakable beliefs and conspiracy theories and the seemingly undeniable fact that he was walking a fine line both professionally and psychologically. In short, that he was a dangerous liability both to himself and those around him and was someone who had no business being within a hundred miles of a case that was already escalating at an alarming rate. 

The article was bad. Very bad. 

And while Skinner could sympathise with Mulder, the fact remained that the old adage held true – if it looks bad, it’s bad for the FBI. In fact, his phone had started to ring even before he had finished reading and on hearing the clipped tones of the Director as he proceeded to verbally chew his ass out as though Skinner were some wet behind the ears rookie agent, he knew exactly what the end result of the call would be.

Mulder was off the case. 

Effective immediately.

As Mulders superior Agent, it had of course fallen to him to break the news; news he hadn’t for one minute expected the younger agent to take at all well. And right now, Mulders incessant pacing backwards and forwards across the carpeted floor was beginning to make him dizzy.

“Sit down Mulder.”

Mulder didn’t even slow his movement, much less acknowledge the direct order from his boss, gesticulating wildly as he continued to vent his frustration to no one in particular, eliciting a worried frown to appear across Scully’s brow as she never took her eyes off him for a second. Skinner could sense the undercurrents that swirled and ebbed between his two agents and the injury to Mulders face, although so far not questioned, had certainly not gone unnoticed. Nor had the fact he was dressed in yesterdays crumpled suit, stubble darkening his complexion that just served to make him appear paler than he already was.

He gesticulated wildly in the direction of the newspaper that now lay in a heap on the floor.

“Where the hell did they get the information?” he demanded angrily “That information isn’t available in the public domain.”

Skinner raised his eyebrow

“Well It is now Agent Mulder..” Then realising he sounded almost flippant in his response, seeing the anger jack up a notch on Mulders face, he swiftly held up his hands in a supplicating gesture. 

“Look, what I mean is, the ‘hows’ and ‘whys’ are unimportant right now...”

Mulder stopped dead in front of him.

“Unimportant?” he laughed hollowly, the sound singularly without any trace of humour. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

And this time Skinner wasn’t prepared to let the attitude slide because regardless of his allegiance to the agent in front of him, the respect he had almost grudgingly formed for him over the years while genuine, did not excuse the way he was currently acting.

“Mulder that’s enough.” He barked. “Now sit your ass down before I put you in that chair myself.”

Scully watched the exchange between the two men, watched the way the red flush began to creep up her partners face, a vein standing out sharply on his temple even as he balled his hands in to fists at his side. Danger signs that she recognised immediately from past incidents and the physical warning that he was about to lose it in a spectacular fashion unless she intervened.

In fact, such was the intensity of the situation between the two men, that neither even realised she had moved until she was suddenly between them, her small hand against Mulders chest as she exerted just enough pressure to make him take a single step back, dwarfed by the height of both of them as they eyeballed each other, she remained totally in control of the situation and, Skinner noted, of her partner. In fact, in different circumstances he would have been fascinated at the way the physical contact seemed to tether the younger man, dissipating his anger just enough for him to gain a measure of control, the way she locked her eyes with his, nodding slightly towards the chair, which, after just a couple of moments, Mulder collapsed in to; Immediately dropping his head in to his hands and staring at the floor, mirroring almost exactly his position of defeat earlier that morning in her apartment. A fact not lost on Scully and just for a second she fought against the urge to comfort him, knowing with absolute certainty that he wouldn’t in any way appreciate the gesture right now, not least because Skinner was present.

She sighed heavily and rubbed the spot between her eyes, right where her cancer had first manifested and even now, despite it being over a year since her mysterious ‘cure’ she was still occasionally plagued by pain in that area. Usually at times of stress and she suspected it was purely a physiological response brought upon when the pressure became too much; a weak spot for want of a better explanation.

“So how did they get the information Sir?” a sideways glance across at Mulder told her immediately that, for the time being at least, he had mentally checked out of the conversation. Using the time to get himself back under control, to gather his thoughts. Scully had seen it before with him and she would allow him to do what he needed to do while she asked the necessary questions.

“I don’t know Agent Scully. And I am sorry, deeply sorry that it has come to this. But the fact remains, morally reprehensible or not, the details contained within that article are factually correct and if Mulder were to remain on the case, it would very quickly become a media circus.”

Scully nodded slowly. Because whether she agreed or not, whether she brokered every counter argument she could muster, she knew deep down that he was right. That Mulders every movement, every decision, every waking moment would be under scrutiny and given how the case had thus far affected him, she was in no doubt at all that at best it would lead to him making mistakes and at worst would break him completely. Not to mention the fact that she couldn’t ignore the tiny voice inside her head that was rejoicing at the fact Mulder wouldn’t have to suffer this sickening case for even another day.

“Roberts didn’t want me on the case to begin with.” 

Skinner glanced across at Mulder, surprised to hear him speak given that he hadn’t changed his position, didn’t bother to lift his gaze.

“ASAC Roberts had some....concerns regarding your conduct out in the field Mulder. But he wasn’t the one who requested you be pulled from the case. That decision came from the Director’s office.”

Mulder finally raised his head

“Did * ASAC* Roberts” he practically spat out the name “Also see fit to advise you that I believe the murders are being committed by a copy cat? A bad copy cat at that?”

“Yes. He sent me a full report last night, citing your...concerns in that regard. Also that you refused to work in any way with his assigned agents, that you contaminated a crime scene and insisted you could see things in one of the paintings that wasn’t there...”

Scully stopped him.

“Sir I saw it too.”

“Agent scully?”

“A number. The number six, it was painted in to the design; easy to miss unless you knew it was there.”

Skinner frowned.

“Roberts said he didn’t see it...”

“Yeah well, maybe he didn’t want to see it” supplied Mulder “Ever think of that?”

“Meaning what Agent Mulder?”

“Meaning *Sir*, that he seemed none too happy that I might solve his case right from under him. And take his glory right along with it.”

“Mulder, I think you are reading too much in to this; being overly paranoid...”

Mulders sudden laughter reverberated around the office, the sound out of place given the circumstances. He gestured once again to the newspaper.

“Paranoid? Yeah right. I guess my mental health life story written right there was a coincidence right? He didn’t want me on the case and he found a way to have me relieved of my investigative duties. Paranoid. Jesus.”

Scully held up her hand, this was getting them nowhere.

“So what happens now?”

“The usual Agent Scully. You make available any and all case notes pertaining to the investigation which will be passed on to the relevant parties. You will have no further involvement, official or otherwise regarding said investigation. You will not attempt to garner any further information relating to it. You are off the case. Period.”

He softened his voice slightly as he regarded Mulder.

“Agent Mulder I think you should take a couple of days. I’ll sign it off.”

And Mulder knew immediately that he was not only being removed from the case, but that he was effectively being sidelined too. Removed from sight until the dust settled and the media hounds switched their attention to some other poor shmuck. The FBI would give them some official line, born from the mind of some overpaid office monkey who knew what to say, when to say it, to control the media spread. Repairing the damage smoothly and unobtrusively while all the time the root of the problem would be swiftly removed, compartmentalised; out of sight out of mind.

*I’m an embarrassment to my superiors, a joke to my peers; they call me Spooky. Spooky Mulder*.

But the murders would continue while all the time they refused to even attempt to think out of the box; to open their eyes to see what he saw and suddenly he was tired, so tired of fighting against the tide all the time, depression settling over him like a cloak as he briefly considered arguing before almost immediately realising that right now, he just didn’t have the energy. He knew he was expected to at least attempt to change Skinner’s mind, to follow his own brand of protocol and he knew that Scully was watching him, could feel her concern for him knowing that his silence was worrying her more than any words he could force out of his mouth.

God he was so fucking tired.

He was vaguely aware of Scully requesting leave also. Of Skinner agreeing without hesitation. Well that was just peachy; maybe they could take in a movie to pass the time while she continued to evaluate his psychological state.

*Unfair Mulder and you know it*.

He got to his feet.

“Are we done then?”

Skinner nodded

“Yes Agent Mulder we’re done....oh and Mulder? What happened to your face?”

“Walked in to a door.”

“Cut the crap Mulder...”

But Mulder simply waved, casually cutting off the line of questioning as he made for the exit.

“See you in two days. Say Hi to Roberts from me.”

And then he was gone.

“Agent Scully...is he....?”

Scully also rose to her feet, taking a moment to smooth the material of her skirt against her legs, arranging her features in to an expression of careful neutrality.

“He’ll be fine Sir.”

It was only afterwards that Skinner realised she had not been speaking in the present tense. 

XXXXXXX

“Mulder wait...”

Ignoring the sound of his partner’s voice behind him, Mulder didn’t react; instead he merely lengthened his strides, quickening his pace as he did so knowing that the only way Scully could hope to catch up with him would be to go from a fast-paced walk, to a feminine trot to an all out gallop down the long hallway which led from Skinner’s office to the elevator that would take him back down to the safety of his subterranean office. It was fair to say that over the years of their long partnership, he had adapted his natural walking pace in order to match that of his much more diminutive partner, an almost unconscious act that was born from an acknowledgement that slowing his pace was infinitely preferable to keep pausing to let her catch up or to suddenly speak to her only to find she was trailing several steps behind him, her huffs of annoyance that he had left her in his wake once again speaking all too clearly that she wasn’t impressed to be eating his proverbial dust.

But today, burning as he was with an impotent anger, not to mention embarrassment as to what had gone down in Skinners office, he just wanted to be as far away from everyone as possible. And, he had to admit to himself that included her. Because the thought of her appraising him with those incredible blue eyes of hers, eyes that were so adept at reading his moods, didn’t for once, offer him even a shred of comfort; because he didn’t want to be read by her. Didn’t want to be analysed, broken down, compartmentalised in to Scullyesque chunks that she could silently and proficiently work on until she was satisfied he was okay again. That he wasn’t falling.

Falling.

Didn’t she get it yet? After all these years together? That he had fallen a long time ago and that sometimes, the only thing that brought him up from his knees was the incessant belief that somehow, someway, justice would one day prevail? For him, for her, for all those taken from them? And that no matter how much she wanted desperately to save him, there were days when he barely had the inclination to save himself? He knew all too well that such an admission would do nothing for his partners already shaky faith in his mental stability, especially since she had witnessed all too often his frequent periods of self loathing where, for want of any other form of curative, he gladly shouldered the collective guilt of the past six years or so firmly on his broad shoulders, a kind of self metered purgatory which allowed him in some small way to attempt to seek absolution for all that had befallen her as a direct result of her continuing allegiance to him and the perpetual downward spiral in to the abyss that seemed to have no pause and no end.

The fact that she had chosen to stay with him in no way alleviated his guilt. Because on several occasions he could have let her go, could have allowed her to flee from him and all he stood for. Less than two years ago she had appeared at his apartment, tearful and resolute as she proclaimed that she was done, that they were done and of course the decent thing would have been to respect her decision, to allow her to finally follow her own path, to carve out a life that wasn’t governed by fear and pain and loss. But her words had sent him in to such a freefall of panicked desperation that, at that single moment in time, he was prepared to do anything; anything to keep her tethered to him. He could still hear his own impassioned words to her that afternoon in his hallway, imploring her to stay with him. To keep him whole, to keep him honest; Allowing his own raw emotion to finally bubble to the surface as he cradled her face in his hands and gently brushed his lips against hers, knowing that once they crossed that final barrier between them she would be powerless to resist, that she could never walk away.

Ironically, less than 24 hours later, he was frantically trying to find a way to reach her, knowing that in all likelihood he would be too late, that this time, she was gone for good. But somehow he had found her, half dead in the frozen belly of the vast spacecraft hidden deep beneath the barren landscape that had almost killed them both.

But they had survived.

And Scully had refused to quit. Any notion she might have had of escaping the X Files swallowed up by a renewed vigour for the truth.

Neither one of them had ever acknowledged the near-kiss in his hallway, or what it represented in their relationship.

But it was there. For Mulder at least, that moment where he looked deep in to her eyes in an effort to communicate to her all that she had grown to mean to him was just there. An unspoken love that had been almost five years in the making and one which at times, threatened to tip him right over the edge, knowing that to act upon it would make them even more vulnerable than they already were.

It was that knowledge if he were completely honest with himself, at least in part, that was making him flee from her today because right now all he wanted to do was to fall in to her arms and drown in the one constant he had managed to hold on to in this God forsaken life he had made for himself. To let her, at least to some degree, absorb some of the darkness that was threatening to overwhelm him. She didn’t deserve it though, she never had.

The elevator was within touching distance now, it’s occupants visible within as they stared resolutely at nothing, unwilling to make eye contact with each other lest conversation have to follow – inane pleasantries that meant nothing and which were uttered without conviction a dozen times a day because it was the polite thing to do, when actually, no one really gave a fuck about the weather or how each other might be feeling at any given time. Just another of life’s ridiculous charades where no one ever said what they really felt, so constrained were they by the professional courtesies that bound them, and which, when Mulder angled his body in order to slip between doors as they began to slide shut, prevented even one raised eyebrow in acknowledgment of him, not even when he shakily released the breath he hadn’t even been aware he had been holding.

Continued part 6


	7. Part 7

Scully sighed as she glanced at her watch for what seemed like the hundredth time, unsurprised to find that only a few minutes had passed since the last time she had looked and once again she felt the anger and frustration bubbling up inside of her, trying to temper it just enough so that when Mulder finally showed up, she wouldn’t immediately jump on to the offensive, knowing him well enough to be aware that to start attacking him would just send him running again.

She hadn’t been at all surprised to find their basement office empty when she finally got to it after he ditched her earlier, because to find him inside, sitting at his desk as though nothing had happened would have been too easy. And while their partnership could be described as many things, multi-faceted as it was, easy wasn’t a word that immediately sprung to mind. So she had spent an hour or so tidying up some loose ends, ensuring, even if her partner hadn’t, that nothing required their immediate attention before they commenced the couple of days leave that Mulder had had thrust upon him and which for herself, she had requested. Her motives were simple – she needed to keep an eye on him. To be available should he need her whether he wanted the help or not because too many times she had watched him make bad decisions when his mind was going haywire, when he wasn’t sleeping, not eating, not thinking about anything other than the darkness that seemed to consume him and one which, sometimes, she felt he willingly welcomed in to his head. She was way past caring whether he would appreciate her efforts to keep him emotionally upright or not. Not after so much time together; after all they had seen and experienced, permission was no longer required and Scully was smart enough to know that for all the times she had propped her partner up, he had repaid her in kind on multiple occasions when she herself had began to unravel.

Partners.

Such a simple word when the ties that bound them were so very complex.

After locking up the office she had briefly stopped off at home, changing in to more comfortable off-hours attire. Worn jeans, white fitted t shift and a soft light blue sweater that accentuated her eyes and clung to her in all the right places, softening the sharp edges that her professional armour of monochrome suits seemed to precipitate; the rigid uniform befitting a consummate Agent of the Federal Government, and one which suppressed her identity and stole away her femininity in one fell swoop, dictating that she think rather than feel. Sometimes she hated it. Hated the fact that she almost became a non-person; just another fibbie that blended in with the crowd, a number not a name.

A pair of white Reeboks and a faded denim jacket completed the outfit, the denim jacket a necessity to conceal the service weapon which, after some harsh lessons learned, she now rarely left the apartment without. Lambs wool and grey steel; as normal a mix to her now as peas and carrots were on a plate of roast beef and without the comforting weight of the Sig Saur tugging slightly at her waistband as it nestled in its leather holster she felt strangely naked, and infinitely vulnerable.

She had made her way over to Mulders apartment, trying several times to reach him on both his home number and his cellular. Neither yielded a response and in fact, his cel was switched off – not unusual for him sure, but given the events of this morning and also the previous couple of days, the fact that he was apparently unreachable caused her concern to ratchet up a notch or two. 

Her concern in no way abated when she arrived at his apartment to discover the morning paper still leaning haphazardly against the door where it had been thrown earlier that day, a clear indication that Mulder hadn’t come home when he took flight from the Hoover building and this fact did surprise her slightly if only because, like her, Mulder tended to shed his suit pretty quickly, favouring battered sweats and ratty t shirts from his long ago college days when the world had been filled with endless possibilities and which hadn’t yet deepened the lines in his face as the trauma of his childhood had continued to drive him closer and closer to the edge.

Scully hadn’t hesitated in pulling her keys from her pocket, identifying the one she sought by mere touch, so familiar was it to her now, and with one fluid movement had unlocked her partners door and stepped inside the apartment to wait for him.

Would he be angry at her presumption? Maybe.

The fact didn’t prevent her from crossing over to the small kitchen where she made herself a coffee and settled down at the table to wait him out. After an hour of drumming her fingers on the scratched wooden surface and several unanswered phone calls later, she abandoned her position, moving back in to the living room and curled up miserably on the couch, tucking her feet beneath her and snagging the Navajo throw from where it rested on the battered black leather to cover her legs which were slightly cramped and cold from the inactivity. And she watched the shadows begin to stretch and darken on the wall in front of her as the sun sank lower in the sky, heralding the beginning of night and, her watch told her, almost nine hours since Mulder had stormed out of Skinner’s office.

Concern for him morphed in to anger and as the hours passed by, before morphing once again in to a cold, raw weight that settled in her stomach; all too familiar to her and which she tried unsuccessfully to rationalise in her troubled mind. That he was merely out somewhere drowning his sorrows, licking his wounds before he felt able to slink back home; which would have been great. If only she believed it.

Scully drew the blanket a little higher, breathing in the scent of her partner that clung to the slightly scratchy surface.

“Damn it Mulder, where are you?”

XXXXXXXXX

 

Mulders first real thought as he struggled back in to consciousness was that he was cold; a damp cold that seemed to permeate through his clothes and settle deep in his bones. The surface on which his aching head lay was hard, unyielding and an unpleasantly musty smell of old buildings, of neglect and disuse tickled his battered senses. His mind felt fuzzy, his thoughts jumbled as he tried to make sense of his surroundings, opening his eyes and immediately slamming them shut for a moment as the headache hit him full force. The left side of his face felt strangely tight, as though something had dried and hardened against his skin.

Blood? Am I bleeding?

He tried to move his arm so as to bring a hand to his face, groaning in pain as his shoulder muscles cramped suddenly against the movement and he realised with a mounting sense of awareness that his wrists were tied behind his back, the unnatural angle sending a slicing pain across his back which quickly escalated to agonising spasms each time he tried to struggle against the bonds that held him.

What the fuck happened to me?

His unspoken question remained unanswered though as suddenly, through slightly blurred vision, he saw a pair of feet advancing towards him, feet clad in black lace up boots, the toe of one smeared with a substance that looked all too familiar and which he quickly identified as being blood. And then, one of the boots disappeared, drawing back out of his limited field of vision even as he slammed his eyes shut and waited for the impact to send him back in to blackness.

XXXXXXXXX

 

“What do you mean he’s *missing*?”

Skinner’s voice had taken on that special cadence he seemed to reserve only when talking about Mulder, a kind of quiet acceptance that once again, the younger man had lived up to his reputation as being the resident departmental fuck up and despite the singular respect Skinner held for the man as a fellow human being, as an Agent under his command he had probably caused him more headaches than the combined force of every other subordinate in the Bureau and sometimes, just sometimes, he wished fervently that he had never clapped eyes on the man. 

He had been less than pleased also when Scully had appeared flushed and slightly dishevelled- looking at the desk of his assistant, demanding an immediate meeting and not being too quiet about it despite being informed that Skinner was currently in conference and couldn’t be disturbed, behaving in a most un-Scullylike way as she disregarded the instruction to come back later, barging in to Skinner’s office without even knocking, her eyes glittering with an intensity that he had seen only once before – when she was desperately trying to find a way to locate Mulder when he had taken off on his ridiculous quest to find God knows what in the middle of the Pacific Ocean and very nearly got himself killed in the process. 

Skinner had put both his professional reputation and his career on the line for her that day, an act of faith that she would prevail, that she knew what she was doing; his belief in her rewarded when she once again plucked her wayward partner from the brink and delivered him back more or less whole. Few of the Agents under his command could elicit the same response from him, but there was just something about Dana Scully that had gotten under his skin a very long time ago. Not only was she one of the most capable Agents he had ever had the pleasure of working with, he had found over the years that she exuded a quiet strength, a powerful resoluteness coupled with a high moral code that made it difficult in the extreme to deny her when she needed support. 

But her behaviour right then had been unacceptable and Skinner at least had to go through the motions of reprimanding her, silencing her attempts to speak with a single barked order as he grasped a hold of her arm and resolutely removed her from his office. She was dressed casually, a state extremely unlike her and one which he had only experienced a handful of times, the fact that she was divested of her usual heels took inches from her height, but right then as she stood before him, the light bouncing off the glassed panels that made up the outer office and reflecting back at him from out of those incredible eyes, she had never seemed more formidable.

Fire and ice in those eyes; eyes that drew him in and made him want to grasp at her like a drowning man seeking absolution. 

He had been slightly shocked at the desperation that radiated from her as she stood rigidly before him, clenching and unclenching her small fists at her side, an action that matched perfectly with the way she clenched her jaw against the incredulous tone her superior agent had adopted.

“He’s missing” She repeated. “I haven’t seen him since yesterday morning. His cel is switched off and he hasn’t been home.”

Skinner couldn’t help but raise a questioning eyebrow at her statement, wondering, not for the first time just how much time his two agents spent together when out of work. It was an action Scully immediately picked up on and beneath the pale skin, a slight flush began to spread across her face.

“I waited there for him in his apartment. All night as it turned out. He never showed, never called....” she swallowed heavily, softening her tone and turning away from Skinner’s assistant who was now feigning disinterest and making a piss poor job of it. The last thing Scully needed was for Mulder to once again become the topic of speculation within the fucking typing pool.

 

“I’m worried about him Sir...this case...the last few days have been....” she groped for the right verb to ensure Skinner understood the potential gravity of the situation; “Difficult for him”

“How difficult?”

Scully closed her eyes briefly, the image of Mulders bloodied face as he clawed desperately at his skin when in the grip of such abject terror he had only barely been reachable, locked inside the darkness of his own nightmare, a nightmare she had managed to bring him out of before he did himself serious harm. But the ‘what ifs?’ loomed dark and dangerous inside of her, a gnawing fear of what might have happened to him had she not been there to pull him back, of just how much damage he might have wrought upon himself. And as the hours had passed with no word from him, the fear had grown and swelled inside of her until nothing else existed, blotting out any semblance of rationality and driving the breath from her body every time she thought about it. And suddenly, despite herself, despite the professional facade she built around herself like a fortress, she found her throat closing, unable to find the right words as her eyes began to burn with unshed tears she just barely managed to keep in check.

It was enough for Skinner and he nodded curtly. 

“Stay here Scully. I’ll make some calls.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

 

“Wake up!”

The voice cut in to Mulders consciousness like a scythe, a strident reminder of the pain that once more began to pulse incessantly inside his head and which matched the agony of cramped muscles kept in one position for too long. In fact, in a straight battle between pain centres he wasn’t entirely sure which would win out because he just hurt. He hurt everywhere, from the soles of his feet to the top of his head, it was difficult to know where one torturous misery ended and the next began. Add to that the fact that he was shivering hard enough to cause his teeth to clash together inside his aching jaw notched the apparent wretchedness of his current situation up another level or two. But despite the pain that radiated through him, white hot and constant, he found that this time he was slightly more aware of himself. He remembered leaving the Hoover building and heading for Callahans, a bar he and Scully occasionally visited after a hard day at work, choosing to unwind a little so as to leave the rigours of a challenging case behind for the night. They rarely drank much – the simple act of spending an hour or so talking nonsense usually had the desired effect – and today (or was it yesterday?) had been no exception. He remembered ordering a single scotch, throwing a note on to the bar before exiting the main lounge area to go take a piss. The drink had been waiting for him when he got back and he had downed it in three swift chugs, screwing his face up slightly against the alcohol as it burned a fiery trail within him and then....and then....everything had just dissolved in to blackness until he had found himself here. Battered and bruised due to God knows what, the damp of the concrete floor permeating his clothing and settling deep inside of him, adding to the shock that his body must surely be experiencing due to his injuries.

Drugged? Was I drugged?

It would certainly account for his earlier confusion, that rolling sense of disorientation that had left him nauseous and dizzy as he fought to regain any sense of equilibrium because now, even through the debilitating pain, his mind felt sharper than it had the last time he had woken.

Then the voice came again, louder this time.

“I said it’s time to wake up!”

And Mulder gasped as a torrent of icy cold liquid hit him squarely in the face, his gasps turning to a round of wracking coughs that threatened to tear him apart, his eyes flying open even as he tried to push himself backwards away from the assault, feet scrabbling for purchase against the now slick concrete surface, arching his back against the painful spasm that sliced through him which, almost against his will, forced a strangled shriek from deep within.

It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the dim light within the concrete fortress he found himself in, hampered more than a little by the fact that it had immediately become apparent that one of his eyes was swollen almost shut and any attempt to open it caused fresh pain to settle behind it that was so sickening he felt the bile begin to rise at the back of his throat and it took every ounce of self control he had to not simply lean over and discharge the contents of his stomach on to the pitted grey surface that was now awash with water that was rapidly soaking in to his clothing. 

“Here, drink this”

A hand appeared in front of his line of vision, holding a brightly coloured plastic cup with a spouted lid. A childs sippy cup.

The bastard is offering me a fucking sippy cup.

Mulder turned his head away, clamping his lips together as he did so, ignoring the sudden and violent thirst that had come alive at the prospect of taking liquid down his parched throat.

“It’s just water Agent Mulder. Nothing more and nothing less.”

That voice. Youngish. Male. Vaguely familer but only casually so, stored deep inside his eidetic memory but not really acknowledged at the time as being important enough to be able to match a name to it in the future.

“Who are you?” the words sounded far away, as though someone else had spoken them, weakened and wavering as he fought against the cold in order to force his lips to cooperate.

“You don’t remember me?”

And then the hand was withdrawn, opening up Mulder’s field of vision just enough to be able to scrutinize the face before him.

White. Early thirties, blonde hair, neatly trimmed. Clean shaven. Nothing remarkable to distinguish him from hundreds of thousands of other unremarkable American males; until he reached the eyes, eyes that glittered with a maniacal intensity that only equalled the hatred that burned within them. Those eyes.....he had seen those eyes before.....

*We will catch him, I promise you that we will catch him...for everything he has taken from you I will find a way to give you the justice you deserve; the justice that she deserves and if it takes me days or weeks or months or years I will find him. Know that I will never give up on the notion of justice and neither should you. For Elice I will find him.....For Elice I will never walk away...*

“Oh my God.”

“You remember me now don’t you Agent Mulder? You promised....you promised her.....but what did you do instead”

Mulder closed his eyes.

“I walked away” he whispered.

Continued part 8


	8. Part 8

Truthfully, there were few times in Mulders life when he had felt truly afraid. Sure he’d felt apprehensive, panicked even on occasions; but the kind of raw fear he was experiencing as he watched the man before him pacing angrily around the small room was rare. He wasn’t stupid – he was wholly aware that much of his past bravado stemmed from a fairly well honed self-deprecation as to his quantifiable worth as a human being, that he had no real right to be fearful regarding his own mortality simply because it had been drummed in to him so thoroughly in the past that, while not worthless exactly, his life was such that an end to it would probably go largely unnoticed by those around him. That thought alone had sent him spiralling downwards more times than he cared to remember.

He had experienced fear of course, but mostly that sense was directed at those around him, a fear borne of the few relationships in his life he had come to rely on to keep alive a need to wake up each morning, to carry on, to fight the fight. And if he were honest, any dire situations he had found himself in simply paled in to insignificance compared to the almost constant anxiety he felt every time he had to stand by and watch as his partner fell headlong in to danger, knowing that all he could hope for would be that somehow, together, they would come out the other side if not completely unharmed, at least fixable in a tangible way.

So many times he had almost lost her; so many times she had clawed her way back to him from the very brink, displaying a fierce loyalty to him, to the work, that he sometimes found hard to fathom. And the emotion in her eyes when she looked at him.....friendship, respect, trust.....and more recently something else. Something he dared not question or even attempt to act upon. That to do so would drive her away from him forever; that she would simply turn and flee.

Dana Scully. The only woman he had ever truly loved and who he would gladly die for if it ever came right down to making a choice. If he had to die so she might live he would consider it a singularly easy choice to make, a decision so easy he wouldn’t hesitate. Or so he had thought until his world had come crashing down upon him just a few short hours ago at the hands of a man who, he now knew, held in his hands the ability to change his life forever.

Mulder had finally dragged his mind back and managed to push through the pain that pulsed inside his head and linked a name to the face of the man who even now continued to pace before him. 

Nathan McLennan

The young husband of Elice McLennan; a man to whom he had made an impassioned promise so many years before when he had found him almost collapsed with grief in the corridor of the county morgue. He had replayed the scene for weeks afterwards, even as the case began to consume him, the horror of trying to offer comfort to a man who had had his world ripped apart in such a vicious way haunted him and strengthened his resolve in equal measure, driving him ever deeper in to the darkness as he fought against himself to stay afloat. 

McLennan had insisted on identifying his young wife’s ravaged remains by sight. Refusing to be deflected by either the county coroner or the law enforcement officers from his resolve to look at his wife just one more time and Mulder could only imagine the damage he had wrought upon himself, because as appalling as it had been to look upon that ravaged face as a trained officer, to look upon it as a loving husband must have been horrific. And now, Mulder had no doubts that it was probably at the precise moment Nathan McLennan had looked in to the empty sockets that had once upon a time sparkled with love and life and emotion that something in his mind had snapped. Quietly and irreparably damaging him to such an extent that, as years had passed, he had developed in to the monster that he had now become. Driven by such a desire for vengeance against those who had failed him, he was no longer able to recognise that he was now wreaking on others exactly the same pain that he himself had felt a decade ago. 

And Mulder had known that no amount of cajoling, of threatening or questioning would have even an iota of effect. Because McLennan had succumbed to the darkness that had slowly and insidiously consumed him for so many years, closing his mind off in increments until he no longer needed justification for his actions; no longer had any real thought process to fall back on, to make him pause to examine his motives or to temper his desire. Because Nathan McLennan was no longer in there, his eyes devoid of any emotion other than the hatred that had festered unchecked inside of him for so long. All too easy for Mulder to recognise, born as it was from a thousand other expressions of hatred he had witnessed over the years.

And he had asked him only one question.

“Why kill them? Why not just kill me?”

McLennan had laughed; a high pitched macabre antithesis of humour before he had leaned in close to Mulder, eyes glittering in the half light.

“To get your attention.”

Those four words had slammed in to Mulder with the force of a sledgehammer and he had choked back a rising sense of revulsion that in fact, the two recent murders had got his attention. That few cases could have evoked such a response within him as this one had and like a flounder caught on the end of a fishing rod, the line had gone taught and he had simply allowed himself to be reeled in. 

So stupid.

So fucking stupid that he hadn’t even stopped to think of what a sudden resurgence of the grisly killings might actually mean.

To get his attention.

Oh yeah. It had worked alright. 

“Do I have your attention now Agent Mulder?” 

And he had watched numbly as two glossy eight by tens were thrust in front of him. The first photograph the image of a smiling woman. Blonde hair. Mid thirties. Juggling a small child in the crook of one arm and a grocery bag in the other. He didn’t recognise her.

The other photograph that of his partner. Taken, he identified easily, just across the street from her apartment. She was dressed in sweats and was leaning over, hands resting lightly on her hips as though she had just finished a run. Bright sunshine bouncing off her hair that had been pulled in to a messy ponytail that just grazed the neck of her t shirt, tendrils escaping to frame her beautiful face. She looked healthy and vibrant and whole and right at that moment, Mulder would have sold his soul to feel her hands against his skin.

For long seconds he just looked at the two images, fighting back nausea as his sharp mind began to prickle with an unease that rapidly escalated in to a fear so intense he thought he might collapse right there and then.

“Why are you showing me these?”

Gripped with paralyzing fear that he already knew the answer.

McLennan laughed.

“So you can make a choice Agent Mulder.”

 

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

 

“When did you last eat?”

Scully met the concerned eyes of her superior agent and shrugged lightly, trying and failing to muster a smile.

“I’m fine....”

Skinner shook his head and grasped her by the elbow, steering her away from the small group of assembled agents who were trying valiantly to appear as if they were engaged in meaningful pursuit when in fact, for the last twelve hours or so they had done nothing but hit brick wall after brick wall.

No one had heard from Mulder. His Mother was out of town and when they finally got a hold of her she coldly informed them that hadn’t spoken to him for over a month and it had taken all of Scully’s professionalism not to rail at her over the phone as she recognised the apparent indifference directed at her only son. 

“He’ll turn up Miss Scully. He usually does”.

But instead, Scully had merely thanked her for her time, urged her to get in touch should she hear from him and replaced the handset with a force that belied her cool exterior, dropping her face in to her hands as she did so; an action that had not gone unnoticed by Skinner.

It was becoming obvious that his Agent was stretched way too tight emotionally and physically she was just about running on empty and in the absence of any solid leads as to the whereabouts of Mulder, he couldn’t see that changing any time soon.

The small but capable task force he had assembled, while not as emotionally connected to Mulder as his partner was, nonetheless had efficiently and thoroughly searched all available avenues in an attempt to shed light on his apparent disappearance and had come up with....precisely nothing.

His cel phone was switched off and untraceable. No calls had been made from it or received for almost 36 hours. No activity through his bank. No airline tickets purchased, rental cars rented, in fact nothing to link him to any kind of travel. His few associates had been contacted. Again no sightings. Every hospital in the DC area had been canvassed. Any John Doe matching Mulders description had been followed up on, including two DOAs whom Scully had insisted on viewing herself at the respective morgues, accompanied by Skinner who had almost been unable to bear the look on her face as she steeled herself before going to view each body and found himself feeling totally impotent as to what to say or do to offer her any kind of comfort. 

So more and more he found himself falling back on his rubric of care giving to an agent under him. As best he could trying to ensure that she at least took care of herself even if she had become singularly focused on the task in hand and once again he found himself uncomfortably aware that his concern was neither required nor appreciated. That in reality, all she wanted was Mulder and that she wouldn’t rest until she found him.

But despite that, he had to at least try because if she didn’t eat something soon, the lack of nutrition coupled with scant sleep and high stress would send her spiralling downwards. The weight she had lost when in the grip of her cancer had never been regained and he suspected that her relationship with food was not as healthy as perhaps it had once been. He knew a little about the effects of chemo on the body and the digestive system and it was probably inevitable that months of throwing up every time she tried to eat anything substantial would have had at least some effect on her psyche. That now, food was no longer a priority and instead simply a secondary consideration when she had time.

Nonetheless he tried again.

“I’m going down to Callahans to pick up something to eat. You want to take a walk with me? You look like you could use a break.”

And closed his eyes in silent thanks when she nodded, the movement so slight it was almost imperceptible. Getting her out of this room was a small victory but he would take it. The food issue he would work on when they got to the bar.

 

XXXXXXXXX

 

For a Thursday night the bar was busy and it took a while for Skinner to elbow his way to the food service register situated to the left of the counter. And he was surprised to see it being manned by Mike Callahan, the owner and erstwhile resident wise-cracker who was more at home schmoosing his customers than in assisting the bar staff. 

Scully had always liked him. He ran a tight ship and unlike many establishments, welcomed all and everyone in to his domain, including the assortment of federal agents who chose to come here to unwind after a gruelling day, revelling in the easy atmosphere he created by not favouring one set of clientele above another. Any trouble maker was swiftly and efficiently dealt with and Scully had found over the years that it was one of the few places where she felt completely relaxed and at ease. Less of an FBI Agent and more of a normal person just out to enjoy a quiet drink, it was a place wrapped in good memories for her and she had spent many after- work hours with Mulder good naturedly ribbing him and accepting his playful banter in return.

He smiled at both agents in recognition as they finally got to the head of the line, his lilting Irish voice evoking childhood memories of family gatherings for Scully who, despite herself, found she was smiling back.

“Evening Miss Scully, how’s that wayward partner of yours doing now? He gave us quite a scare the other day you know...”

Beside her, Scully felt rather than saw Skinner tense, so palpable was the action that the bar owner’s words had elicited in him and she was unsurprised when he cut Mike off mid-sentence.

“Mulder was here? Mike when was this?”

Mike frowned

“Ummmm couple of days ago? Early-ish in the day if I remember.”

“Which day Mike?”

Scully just stood, watching the exchange, aware suddenly of her heart beating against her chest as she forced herself to breathe normally, trying to temper the sudden feeling of elation that finally, they might have something tangible, no matter how insignificant, that might generate a place to start.

“Ummmm Tuesday I think.” He shrugged lightly “he knocked back a scotch that went straight to his head. One of my junior staff volunteered to get him home safe. It was strange though because I would swear he was sober as a judge when he walked in....”

Almost unconsciously Scully reached for Mike’s arm, wrapping her fingers around it tightly to get his full attention.

“Who took him home? Can we speak to him?”

Mike shook his head

“You could, but he’s not here. Called in that same morning. Seems like Mulder was more of a handful than he expected and he twisted his back trying to get him in to a cab. Hence why I’m here and not working the floor....” his smile died abruptly on his lips as he became aware of the intense expressions of the two agents in front of him. “What is it? What’s happened? Is Mulder okay?”

Skinner ignored the question, instead, asking one of his own.

“His name Mike? I need his name right now.”

 

XXXXXXXXX

 

Mulder closed his eyes briefly, swallowing heavily against the rising tide of nausea as a sickening realisation of what he was being offered slammed in to his conscious thought. A choice. A choice as to who would live and who would die. A choice that, had it been offered to him in a purely hypothetical situation, he would have had no difficulty in determining that, without a shred of doubt, he would do whatever it took to protect Scully from harm; that there was nothing, nothing he wouldn’t do, no sacrifice too great to keep her safe.

But this? 

This changed everything and he could only barely comprehend what was being asked of him. Pick Scully in the hope that she was able to save herself or allow a vulnerable civilian to fall at the hands of this evil, psychotic bastard? And he knew that whichever decision he made, he would be haunted by the consequences for the rest of his sorry existence because this was no choice. Choice alluded to free will and right now he had never felt more powerless in his life. 

*I can’t. I can’t do this*. 

He shook his head numbly.

“Look at them Agent Mulder. Make your choice...or I make it for you.”

“Please....”

“I said LOOK AT THEM!”

And Mulder gasped as McLennan grasped a fistful of hair, jerking his head viciously up and back, feeling the tendons in his neck and shoulders start to scream in protest at this latest assault.

“Open your fucking eyes and look at them or so help me God I will cut them out of your head right now...”

And a sudden image of Elice Mclennan, porcelain skin with a dusting of freckles that were still visible against the lividity of her ravaged flesh, sightless and defiled, her red hair as dull and lifeless as once it must have shone with a hundred different highlights as it caught the sun......

* Scully. Oh God Scully, tell me what to do. I don’t know what to do*.

“Kill me instead. It’s me that you want...” knowing the futility of the words even as he spoke them, because as battered and bruised as he was, all too well he realised that that merely killing him could never be enough; was nowhere near the level of consequence McLennan felt he had earned, that in his own sick mind, Mulder was solely responsible for denying him the justice he felt he deserved, felt his wife deserved and that this was finally, a way of metering out his own punishment to the man who had walked away. 

“I won’t ask you again.”

And slowly, so wrenchingly slowly, Mulder opened his eyes, ignoring the pain that came from the bruised and puffy flesh surrounding them, hardly aware of the tears that began coursing down his face, knowing that he had no choice; that there was no choice to make because as hard and as painful and as unthinkable as this situation was, he knew that the alternative was just too fucking heinous to comprehend.

“Not Scully” he whispered through lips that hardly seemed to belong to him, dry and cracked and bloody as they were, “Please not Scully.”

McLennan released his hold on Mulders hair, watching as the older man’s head immediately bowed almost to his chest, breath coming in short gasping sobs as the tears ran down his face, hanging for a split second on to his jaw line, crystalline in the muted light that the single bulb afforded the room, a satisfied smile curving across his face as he watched Mulder curl inwards in as far as his bounds would allow him; watched the Agent as he began to break in to pieces right there in front of him. A pathetic weakened bundle of soiled clothing that stank of sweat and piss and fear. And his smile widened as he regarded the photographs he still held in his hands.

Because this was just the start of it. 

And there was so much more yet to come before justice was served.

 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 

Skinner stood in front of his assembled Agents, the lights dimmed almost to darkness to ensure an unencumbered view of the projector screen that was now filled with the image of a smiling young man. 

Pleasant looking.

Ordinary.

 

Dressed in the black shirt with the clover leaf insignia of Callahans embroidered on to the front pocket and the name ‘Nate’ beneath. The photo had been taken by Mike and was one of hundreds he had taken over the years that had found their way on to the red brick walls of the main area of the bar. The man in the picture was stood, surrounded by happy patrons, holding a couple of bottles of beer aloft of the crowd and staring straight at the camera. A relaxed, happy image of a man enjoying his work.

He didn’t look like a killer.

But then again, Skinner reflected sourly, when did they ever?

“Nathan Alan McLennan age 34. Worked at Callahans for a little over 12 months. Spent time in and out of institutions for the past decade. Diagnosed with acute associative disorder, history of violence, drug and alcohol abuse, no convictions however. Seems he kept himself just enough above the law to escape prosecution despite numerous arrests – mainly D and D, possession, assault...nothing big really. According to Mike Callahan he has always been a model employee, kept himself to himself. Didn’t socialise with the other staff out of hours, spoke mainly about his wife and ten year old daughter when he spoke at all. However, Nathan McLennan is a widower. No children. Unless...” Skinner paused in order to ensure he had the full attention of every Agent in the room, “..... You count the one his wife was carrying when she was murdered.”

Scully remained impassive as a subdued murmur rose from the assembled task force in response to Skinner’s words. This information wasn’t news to her, in fact Skinner had, on arriving back at the Hoover building with an incredulous Mike in tow, tasked her to run the background check. Partly because he wanted to ensure that they had just cause to follow-up on McLennan and partly to keep her focus centred on the job in hand, knowing that as exhausted as she was, she would start to unravel if she couldn’t keep her mind occupied. She had recognised and appreciated the sentiments and had, with typical meticulousness, delivered the goods in quick time.

Even she though had been surprised at the information she had uncovered.

Another photograph appeared on the screen. This time the image within showing a petite red-headed young woman smiling almost shyly at the camera – the image pulled from the files of the associated press offices – and one which had been used a decade before in one of the hundreds of newspaper and magazine articles during the Portrait Murderer’s reign of terror. A photograph designed to show the woman rather than the victim, supplied by the family in hope that someone, somewhere would look at it and a memory might surface, half forgotten but which might help take the investigation forwards. But no one ever had; at least not with anything that could actually help catch her killer.

“Elice McLennan age 23 at the time of her murder. Fourth victim of the so called ‘Portrait Murderer’ she was pregnant at the time of her death but it’s questionable whether she realised.”

Another soft clicking sound and the image changed again.

The smiling, pretty young woman with the sparkling eyes and the vibrant hair replaced by the sightless, bloated, violation she had become, propped up in a puddle of blood and fluids, mouth slack, the vicious gaping wound at her throat almost black with the beginning of decay and putrescence, matching the hollow voids where her eyes had once been. Eyes that had been literally eaten from her head by the fly larvae that had flourished and feasted in the heat of the DC summer.

Scully swallowed and forced herself to concentrate on the image, to feel something other than revulsion at what this woman had become. She had read the file fully, was aware that Mulder had been first on the scene, had been the one who had found her, had attempted to close eyelids that no longer existed, who had been literally dragged from the crime scene by an irate Patterson who had placed an official reprimand on his file for potentially disturbing evidence.

Evidence.

A human being reduced to an object.

But not by Mulder. Never by him.

And Scully could only imagine how it had affected him.

Her partner. A man who was a curious mixture of unwavering strength and aching vulnerability, who, despite everything he had seen and experienced, could still feel. Could still comfort and empathise and show compassion when a situation required it. Who was aware of and accepted the derision displayed towards him by his peers who were too fucking insular to realise just how extraordinary he really was.

“Agent Scully?”

Scully dragged her eyes away from the projector screen, uncomfortably aware suddenly that the attention of the whole room was focused on her.

“Sir? Sorry, what?”

Skinner regarded her carefully, struck once again by the rigidity of her posture which belied the paleness of her skin and the dark shadows beneath her eyes. Always the consummate professional, he could usually rely on her to keep focus. But right now she was running on empty and he had already decided that as soon as the briefing was done she was going home. If only for a few hours, she needed time away, because whether she accepted it or not, she needed to regroup; to rest.

“The tape Scully. We’re ready for the tape.”

“Oh...yes of course...”

Scully turned her attention to the video player that sat on a shelf beneath the large screen TV that Skinner had set up earlier and pressed play, watching the screen as a grainy image of Mulder appeared from a corner of Callahans main lounge, watching him make his way to the bar, watching as the tall, blonde haired bar tender took his order, raising his hand and gesturing toward the door that led to the restrooms. And then, another murmur from the assembled agents as McLennan reached in to his pocket and shook a few drops of liquid in to Mulders drink.

She couldn’t watch any more. Already she had watched the CCTV a dozen times and the image of her partner returning to the bar where he downed the drink before collapsing heavily on to the bar in front of him, only barely managing to stay upright as McLennan hurriedly came around to catch him before he fell was imprinted on her memory as though it had been branded. 

“I don’t get it....why would he want Mulder?” This from one of the younger Agents assigned to the case. A recently promoted field Agent in his late twenties. Scully couldn’t quite remember his name. Marsden? Mason? It just didn’t seem important. His question though, was valid and relevant, especially given the fact that, spanning a five year period following his wife’s murder, there were over a hundred letters written by Nathan McLennan to the District Attorney’s office insisting that the case be re-opened, made active once again, that Agent Fox Mulder be relieved of his position within the Bureau, that he be made accountable for the lack of resolution, that he was guilty in his failure to bring the killer to justice. Over a hundred letters written. Always polite. Always articulate. Always requesting the same course of action. 

And no one had ever thought to bring them to Mulders attention. Dismissed as the ramblings of a grieving husband. Responded to but never really given credence. And Mulder never knew. He never knew. How could he never have known? 

Scully swallowed, guarding herself before she answered; refusing to allow the panic that had been building inside her since she had discovered the existence of the letters, of what it might mean for Mulder.

“Because he blames him. He blames Mulder because Mulder was removed from the case. Because he thinks he walked away from it. So he needs to make things right.......”

*He’s going to kill him. He’s going to slit his throat and watch him die right in front of him, so that his last waking moment is of pain and fear and the scent of his own death; he’s going to use his blood to paint a picture for us to find...and then he’s going to leave him. He’s going to leave him to be eaten away by insects, his eyes first, then his soft tissue, then every other exposed piece of him. Until we find him....until I find him....*.

Scully blinked. Just once as she squared her shoulders, drawing herself up to her full height, eyes coolly regarding the men assembled before her, inscrutable as ever, calmly professional, totally unreachable.

“Please excuse me for a minute Sir.”

Reaching the bathroom just in time, gripping the side of the toilet with whitened fingers as she retched and retched, her stomach contracting painfully even when there was nothing left to vomit, dry heaving so painfully she thought she would split in two until finally, she collapsed sobbing against the partition wall, finally succumbing to the pressure that had been building within her, releasing it, letting it go.  
*Oh God Mulder, please be okay. Please come back to me safe*.

Continued part 9


	9. Chapter nine

Mulder was drifting; a not entirely unpleasant feeling where he hovered somewhere between conscious and not. His cheek lay against the cool surface of the concrete, the pressure of his position, whilst alleviating slightly the constant slicing pain in his neck and shoulders, did nothing for his aching jaw and although he was fairly sure it wasn’t broken, a tentative exploration with his tongue had encountered not only lacerated flesh around his gum line, but several loosened teeth. His dentist was going to have a field day with him when he finally found a way out of this mess.

If he found a way.

He had been in hostile situations before – more times than he cared to remember in fact – where his life had been threatened and his choices had seemed limited. 

But this? 

This was something altogether different; because there was nowhere to start, no way of even attempting to use his training and fortitude to find a way out of this. Moving was almost impossible – the unnatural position he had been forced in to had taken its toll and as the hours had passed he had ceased to feel his extremities, a spreading numbness that had begun as cramps but slowly tapered off to be replaced with a heavy dragging feeling, as though invisible weights had been attached to his limbs and he knew that even if by some miracle he was able to get free, the chances of actually being able to move without losing consciousness were slim to none.

Add to that the as yet unknown and un-catalogued injuries he had sustained at the hands of McLennan and the fact that he was no doubt becoming severely dehydrated due to lack of any water forthcoming after he had refused to drink anything offered to him, meant that his chances of walking away from this were becoming less likely by the hour.

McLennan meant to kill him; of that he had no doubt and somewhat remarkably, he felt no particular fear at the consideration of his own death. Too many situations over the past years had found him in life threatening situations that, he deduced, his mind had become almost accepting of the fact that he was unlikely to keep coming out ahead; that one day the dice would finally roll against him and that would be an end to it all. No – the thought of his demise didn’t bother him unduly but despite this he would fight this with everything he had left in him because dispassionate regarding himself he might be, but prepared to put Scully through the horrors of finding him dead he was not.

Because she would find him; his faith in her was such that he knew she would move heaven and earth to reach him, to bring him back and all he could hope to do was to keep himself together until she did. And each time he felt himself beginning to unravel, he forced himself to bring in to focus an image of her; to concentrate his thoughts back on to her rather than at the horror that had played out in this small room right in front of him just a few short hours ago and which even now, he was unable to escape even for a second.

The coppery smell of blood was all around him, mingling with the acrid scent of his own vomit which he had forcibly ejected from his stomach as it clenched painfully at the sight of the blood that had pumped relentlessly from the woman who now faced him just a few feet away from his almost foetal position on the soiled and stinking floor.

He had known it was coming even as he prayed for it not to be so.

But he had become aware suddenly of the sound of a woman crying softly and for one chilling moment he had thought it was Scully; that the bastard had brought him his partner despite the choice he had been forced to make and the fear had forced his eyes to snap open, his heart beginning to hammer painfully against his chest as he had viewed the terrified woman who was slumped against the wall opposite him, her blonde hair framing her tear streaked face with tendrils that had escaped the high ponytail she wore it in. She wasn’t young – maybe around thirty years of age and he immediately recognised her from the photograph McLennan had shoved against his face earlier in the day. Her hands were bound in front of her, her ankles tied in the same way and a piece of tape covered her mouth, her hitching sobs causing it to distort slightly as each puff of air was forced against it and for a second he found himself transfixed by it, transported sharply back to another time in another place where he had peeled similar tape from the face of his partner as a fire burned brightly behind them and the sickening odour of burning human flesh permeated the night air; her eyes had been huge, shining almost orange with the glow of the flames as she fought to hold on to her fear. He had reached her just in time and even after they had closed out the case he found he couldn’t stop shaking; that the punishing adrenaline rush refused to calm.

It was only when she had finally allowed him to hold her, to affirm that she was indeed still with him, that he was able to start to come down; to process the fact that he had got to her before she was killed; that she was safe.

It had been a terrible year for them both but more so for Scully as they seemed to encounter danger at every turn and he had seen her frightened more times than he cared to remember; that since she had been returned from her abduction there seemed to have been no respite for either of them; that no matter how they tried to keep each other safe from harm the punches kept coming and the cases they worked took them ever further in to danger.

But they had survived; somehow they had survived although he suspected they had come out the other end irrevocably changed by all they had seen and experienced. Scully certainly had seemed harder; more brittle somehow and the easy smiles she had bestowed upon him during the first year of their partnership had become harder and harder to coax out of her. Their personal losses that year had been huge and suddenly, nothing seemed to be very funny anymore as they just concentrated all their energies on getting through the next day, the next week, the next month. And in some small way they had prevailed – together they had picked themselves up and carried on – able to move forwards once again. 

But now, Mulder wondered whether, even if he got out of this alive, just what he could reasonably expect his life to be like; how long before his demons became just too great and his mind cracked with the knowledge of what he had been forced to do; of the choice he had to make.

Mercifully, the end for the woman before him had been relatively quick. She had lost consciousness almost immediately; the rapid blood loss combined with the shocking violence inflicted upon her had combined to make her quickly unaware of what was happening. Or at least he prayed for that to be the case.

She had screamed when McLennan had removed the tape from her mouth and even though Mulder knew what was coming, he found himself transfixed on the scene as it unfolded right there in front of his eyes. The way McLennan gently, almost reverently caressed her cheek was sickeningly familiar and just for a second, her face became Scully; her breath hitching as she met his eyes, pleading with him to do something – anything- to make it stop, her screams imprinted on his soul forever as McLennan swiftly drew the scalpel on its first pass across the creamy white skin of her neck, slicing through tendons vessels and arteries as the blood began to spill and her scream became nothing more than a sickening gurgle as her vocal cords were severed.

And all the time the blood kept flowing and McLennan kept cutting, his arm in a perpetual sawing motion that seemed like it would never end as Mulder cried soundless tears; feeling his stomach clench as the scent of fresh blood filled the small room; wanting to close his eyes and die right along with her. But he forced himself to keep watching.

Because he had made his choice; and this was his penance.

He must have blacked out though because when he next opened his eyes, McLennan was gone and by the fresh agony that washed over him in waves, it was clear that he had taken another beating. He also realised that he didn’t care; because it was nothing more than he now deserved.

 

XXXXXXXXX

 

Scully had managed to pull herself together – just – and after rinsing her face with cold water had made her way back to the conference room, carefully rearranging her features as she did so. Skinner had so far not mentioned sending her home; in fact, he seemed to have forgotten his anxious words to her a few hours ago with regards to her emotional and physical state. She also knew that his current inattention towards her was wholly temporary; that she couldn’t hope to fly under the radar for much longer before he realised once again she was balancing precariously on the edge. And despite herself, she knew she was running on empty; that there was no way she could keep up the charade of wellbeing for much longer without at least a token amount of rest.

Sleep was out of the question though; because how the hell could she hope to sleep when every time she closed her eyes she saw her partner, broken and terrified as the knife pierced his neck, his life force running from his to form a bloody puddle around him.

Was he even still alive at all?

Scully shook her head. 

*Stop it. Just stop it.*

“Agent Scully?”

Scully swallowed heavily, as she almost walked headlong in to her boss; stopping herself just before she collided with his chest and she realised that he had been waiting here for her the whole time, that she had been kidding herself if she thought he had forgotten his earlier assertion. Nevertheless, she was more than prepared to fight her corner and she lifted her chin slightly, jaw set in anticipation.

“I’m fine”

Skinner sighed. There it was; the standard Dana Scully fallback and one which, as he observed the almost waxy pallor of her pale skin now devoid of even a scrap of make-up was currently about as inaccurate as it could get; the way she refused to meet his eyes and most telling of all, the way her shoulders slumped slightly; sheer exhaustion making her seem even smaller than she actually was. Gently he placed a hand on the back of her neck, unsurprised as to how chill she felt beneath his touch, and steered her away from the conference room and toward the elevators.

“Go home Scully.”

“Sir...please don’t...I’m..”

“Fine. Yes so you said. It’s an order Agent. You either go willingly or I discharge you from the case right now.” He softened his tone slightly “look, I know you feel obligated to stay but right now there is nothing you can do. I’ve got twenty pairs of eyes looking at this thing and right now, you need to rest. Because when we get a move on this I will need you with us.”

“Do you think he’s still alive?”

Skinner sighed, unwilling to give the woman before him false promises; knowing deep down that the chance of finding Mulder alive was scant at best but at the same time unwilling to surrender completely to his fears.

“I hope so. I really do.”

The look on Scully’s face though told him that she had seen straight through his verbal posturing and she shrugged off his hand angrily, nodding curtly before turning sharply away from him, her parting words hanging in the air.

“I won’t give up on him. Even if you have.”

 

XXXXXXXX

 

Truthfully, Scully couldn’t remember making the drive back to her apartment although luckily the night time traffic was light as she made the familiar twists and turns largely on autopilot. Since leaving the Hoover building it was almost as though a switch had been flicked and all the thoughts of her partner that she had successfully managed to hide behind the professional mask she wore so effortlessly had finally come flooding to the fore.

His face, his smile, the way he looked at her when he was expounding one of his bizarre theories as he anticipated her incredulous response and would already have a counter-argument all neatly wrapped and packaged to deliver the moment she opened her mouth to argue. That effortless verbal sparring that made them who they were. Testing each other constantly, neither one prepared to accede gracefully as they both made the other work for every small victory. It was who they were now; two halves of the whole that somehow made everything make sense and the thought of losing him now was just too painful to even comprehend. Especially not like this; at the hands of a mad man who had been a decade in the making, not without her by his side; not to die terrified and alone like this.

 

She was almost surprised to find herself outside her apartment building, the act of switching off the car engine forcing her attention back to the here and now as she realised her face was damp with tears; tears she hadn’t even realised she had shed as she had lost herself in thoughts of him, wearily scrubbing her cheeks with the palms of her hands before exiting the car.

Her apartment, when she pushed open the door, was lit by a single light that shone from her bedroom and immediately the hairs on the back of her neck began to prickle with unease. Had she left the light lit when she had left for Mulder’s place? It seemed so long ago and truthfully, she couldn’t remember; certainly she had been preoccupied but why would she have even turned the light on in daylight hours? Her bedroom window faced the east and benefitted from good natural light for the better part of each day and there would have been no reason to illuminate it further.

Silently, senses on full alert, she reached around to withdraw her weapon from its position in the holster attached to her waistband, thumbing the safety catch off and curling her index finger around the trigger, tired limbs now tense with anticipation as adrenaline chased away the exhaustion and replaced it with a sudden alertness born from years of unwelcome surprises garnered from her work with Mulder.

Her voice rang out clear and true as she carefully approached the bedroom door, arms locked straight out in front of her as she angled her body sideways so as to view the interior of the room afforded by the half open door. It appeared empty but even so....

“Federal Agent.”

And as she stepped inside, eyes scanning her surroundings, assimilating information in a singularly rapid way; evaluating any potential threats within a split second in exactly the way she had been trained to do and there was nothing. 

Except.....

Scully’s eyes widened as she took an involuntary step backwards, feeling her grip on the gun loosen as her limbs seemed to become liquid and boneless by the object in front of her.

 

A canvas. 

Propped against her headboard, the blood staining her good white pillowcase deep red with the still damp liquescent mess that had dripped down the edges of the portrait; a portrait of a laughing Mulder, sparkling eyes screwed up as though against the sun which lent paler highlights to his thick dark hair; a face that over the years had become so dear to her, the face of the man she loved.

Painted in blood.

“Oh God”

She was barely aware of the strangled words; the sound of her heart hammering painfully against her chest rendering her incapable of thought or feeling as she remained rooted to the spot, unable to tear her gaze away from the painting before her which was both beautiful and repulsive at the same time until finally she took one staggering step backwards, wincing as her hip connected solidly with the hardwood door frame.

The sharp pain acted as a catalyst and finally, she was able to tear her eyes away from the image of her missing partner that laughed at her from across the room. 

His blood.

Oh God please no not his blood.

Scully fumbled for her phone, willing her trembling fingers to co-operate sufficiently to punch in the number, closing her eyes against the panic that threatened to completely overwhelm her, needing to just hang on for a few more seconds; to remain professional; to do her job.

Until finally

“Skinner.”

And Scully listened to herself as though she were merely an observer, recounting to her superior Agent just what she had discovered waiting for her in her apartment; requesting a forensics team to attend immediately; her tone clipped and sharp as she relayed the information with as much detachment as she could muster. The sound of Skinner’s barked orders as he in turn passed on the request to the agents surrounding him and then the frantic tone as he repeatedly spoke her name when no further response from her was forthcoming.

Because Scully no longer heard him; shock taking over as she leaned heavily against the wall, sliding down it until she was able to bring her knees to her chest, arms clasped tightly around them, all effort at remaining detached abandoned as she began to weep hopelessly. 

Continued chapter 10


	10. Chapter 10

The office was quiet, suffused in a muted glow from the single desk lamp that illuminated the area where her boss was working and from her prone position on the couch that dominated the more casual seating area, Scully could hear him breathing.

It was an oddly comforting sound, reminding her constantly that she wasn’t alone and as much as she tried to negate a need for reliance on those who hovered on the fringes of her solitary life, for once she was grateful for the companionship and caring of another human being. He had attempted to cajole her in to going to the hospital just to be checked over and she had stoically refused even though she knew that she had badly frightened him; had no clear remembrance of him arriving at her apartment with half a dozen agents in tow. Her recollections were hazy around the edges; a collection of images, thoughts and feelings that had seemed almost as though she were viewing herself from across the room. The feel of his hands, gentle on her pallid skin as he pried the gun from where it was still clutched in her hand, the way he spoke so soothingly to her in attempt to bring her back to him. She couldn’t remember exactly what he had said, only that his familiar voice had somehow broken down the barrier her shocked mind had thrown so completely around her.

He told her later that she had been fairly unresponsive to everything around her for around five minutes; that even though her eyes were open, she was just....gone.

But slowly she had responded to his ministrations, coming back to full awareness in degrees and managing to shake her head when he had firmly directed that someone call an ambulance for her before struggling to her feet; realising too late that her legs were in no shape to support her weight and gasping with embarrassment when, as she began to buckle, Skinner stepped forward and simply lifted her in to his arms, holding her easily as though she weighed no more than a feather. For a few seconds she had been mortified, hot colour flooding her face as she realised just how many of her colleagues were witnessing such a complete loss of control, of weakness. It was a side of herself she kept under tight rein, even from Mulder.

Mulder.

Oh God.

And despite herself the tears had returned once again; scalding and burning fresh tracks down her face as she allowed her head to fall on to Skinner’s shoulder as he carefully carried her down the hall and in to the living room, not wincing when, almost against her will, her arms had tightened around him, fingernails digging in to the hard muscled planes of his suited shoulders.

She hadn’t wanted to let him go; hadn’t wanted to have to face up to the realisation of what the portrait in her bedroom might mean for her partner; the potentials so heinous, so abhorrently terrifying that she just needed to deny it to herself for a few seconds more.

“It’s okay Scully.”

The words murmured by her boss, this most tightly controlled of men, spoken so softly as he dipped down to gently deposit her on the couch, breaking the moment but not the feeling of support, of protection and of respect for her that radiated off him in waves. He had fetched her a glass of water, supporting her with a warm hand to her back as she finally managed to regain her equilibrium enough to sit up, unaware of just how dry her mouth was until the first deliciously cool drops of water washed over her parched throat. She had drained the glass and briefly closed her eyes as the last vestiges of confusion melted away.

“Better?” he had asked, scrutinising her carefully as, almost imperceptibly she nodded affirmation and finally satisfied to a degree, he had left her in order to take control of the Agents with him; barking orders at them, his voice hardened and clipped once more as he swiftly took stock of what needed to be done. And Scully had simply leaned back against the soft cushions of her couch, more comforted by the mere sound of him returning to normality than she had been of being in his arms.

She couldn’t stay in her apartment of course; not only because she knew that the forensics team would need to take control of it for at least a couple of days, but also because the thought of staying anywhere near to where that odious portrait had touched completely and utterly repulsed her. And it wasn’t lost on her that, despite everything that had happened in her home over the past six years, she had always found a way to return. But this? This was different somehow and if, as she feared, the blood used to manufacture the image of her partners face did indeed belong to him, she doubted she would ever be able to return again. 

Whether it was Mulders blood though was still a subject of some uncertainty and until the lab results came back, all she could do was to hold on to the shreds of hope within herself which were becoming ever more tattered around the edges.

Skinner had tried to insist she check in to a hotel; had even offered her use of a bureau credit card to sweeten the deal but she had point blank refused, demanding instead to be the one to run the blood typing on the portrait, arguing her corner in vain as Skinner stood his ground, stiff necked and unflinching in his resolve. Eventually though the impasse had been bridged by a compromise – he would allow Scully to return with him back to the Hoover building to await the results from the labs on the condition she remain in his office; that she at least make some attempt to rest.

And on their arrival back he had directed her firmly over to the couch where she now lay in the semi-darkness beneath the soft woollen blanket he had magically produced from somewhere. Sleep though had completely eluded her and her doctors mind helpfully supplied that the punishing adrenaline rush she had felt on first entering her apartment was in no way fully abated – the sporadic fluttering of her heart and the vague sense of panic she still felt whenever she closed her eyes, a feeling of vertigo as every now and again the world seemed to tilt slightly on its axis all alluded to her self - diagnosis. No longer in shock certainly; but still in no shape to be doing anything much at all.

Instead she concentrated her efforts on maintaining her breathing as despite herself, the image of Mulders laughing visage as the blood dripped on to her snowy white cotton sheets threatened to send her spiralling in to full blown panic attack. And from another time and another place she heard her partners voice; cajoling her to stay with him even as she had almost slipped away.

Breathe. Just breathe.

And she made herself follow his direction from months ago as she lay frozen and near death from the introduction of the alien virus in to her system. He had found her then; against all the odds he had somehow brought her back, his own life becoming secondary in his mind to that of hers and it in the weeks after they had struggled to return to a kind of normality that she realised just how much she loved him; how long she had loved him.

To lose him now was unthinkable.

Breathe. Just breathe.

And despite herself, as the events of the past few days finally caught up with her, Scully slipped in to an exhausted sleep, the sound of Mulders voice whispering on the fringes of her conscious mind lulling her in to slumber as Skinner continued to work at his desk across the room. Occasionally he would glance over at her, satisfying himself that she was resting quietly and not for the first time he found himself questioning the relationship he had formed with his two maverick agents because certainly, it was not something he had ever expected to happen. In fact his initial reaction at learning he was to be supervising Fox Mulder had been one of extreme annoyance; Skinner ran a tight ship with a reputation for almost military precision and he had never taken kindly to the kind of insubordination that the man heaped upon him on a regular basis. But over time he had developed a grudging respect for him, for his single minded determination and also for the fierce loyalty he displayed toward his partner.

It never ceased to amaze Skinner just how Scully had managed not only to maintain a partnership with a man who had refused every effort to partner him for well over five years, but had evoked such a connection with him that if he were ever called upon, Mulder would offer his life for hers without even having to consider it. He also suspected that Scully would reciprocate. Thiers was a true and unique partnership – a connection that came once in a lifetime to those lucky enough to experience it. Some would call them soul mates and maybe they were; each giving the other a part of themselves to keep them whole; to allow them to prevail against the darkest circumstance as they drew from each other in order to carry on.

Sometimes he envied them.

But now, tonight as he watched over Scully as she finally slept, he felt only a creeping dread that settled cold and hard like a rock in his stomach; because the flip side of such an emotionally invested partnership was the knowledge that if something were to happen to one, the other would surely be destroyed. Skinner closed his eyes and prayed he would never live to see it, prayed that he would not have to be the one to impart the news to Scully that Mulder was lost to her and he almost wished he could just turn his phone off; so he could delay what he believed deep down would be the inevitable conclusion to the events of this long night.

Because he knew that the chances of it not being Mulders blood on that canvas was a scant hope at best and that this time, Scully hadn’t been able to save him.

The call came in just as the first vestiges of dawn were streaking the navy sky with a myriad of multi-coloured jewel tones that clung to the edges of the Washington skyline and he was conscious of Scully bolting upright from her prone position. From asleep to fully awake in a blink of an eye her fear was almost palpable as she stared at him from across the space that separated them, her eyes finding his and locking on to him, searching for clues in his expression even as he listened to the lab technician relay his findings.

Skinner nodded curtly.

“Thank you”

Replacing the handset and releasing the breath he had been holding since the first ring had shattered the silence around him, he looked at Scully, marvelling for a split second at the way the dawn light bounced off her hair, transforming it to a vibrant flame red that seemed at odds with the stark whiteness of her complexion.

“It’s not his blood.”

And he watched his agent literally sag with relief, her hands flying to her face, hiding the tears from him that had surely begun to flow once more; turning his face away as he swallowed against the tightness that had inexplicably formed in his throat.

 

XXXXXXXX

 

Moses Abraham watched the man approach the security desk; he had noticed him the minute he had entered the large atrium a few minutes previously and although he had done nothing to particularly draw attention to himself, there was something about him that unnerved Moses just enough to release the small leather strap that held his service revolver snugly in the holster that sat against his hip. If his instincts were wrong...well, no harm done but his long years on the job had taught him that being wrong but prepared was infinitely preferable to allowing situations to just play out and being caught on the hop.

Nevertheless he maintained his usual pleasantly professional expression, taking in the man who now stood before him. Tall, blonde, young-ish. Casually dressed but smart all the same. Ordinary in fact.

“How can I help you Sir?”

The man smiled and Moses couldn’t help a small shiver that worked its way up his back. The smile seemed....predatory somehow.

“I’d like to see Special Agent Dana Scully please.”

Moses frowned. There was nothing on his worksheet for Agent Scully that day – in fact there was nothing much at all and certainly, it was unusual in the extreme for anyone to request a meeting with an Agent with no prior planning.

“Is Agent Scully expecting you sir?”

“No. But I think she will be eager to see me. I have something she has been looking for.”

Amos licked his lips nervously, his senses on full alert as he felt the short hairs on the back of his neck begin to bristle; a purely involuntary response that the man’s tone of voice invoked within him. If he had been asked, it was doubtful he could have explained it in any real way. Only that there was something that was just....wrong. 

But in the absence of any tangible threat, there was nothing he could do other than follow laid down procedure and so he picked up the handset of the phone that would patch him through to the building’s switchboard.

“May I take your name please sir?”

The man smiled again.

“Oh yes. Yes you can. My name is Nathan McLennan.”

 

Continued chapter 16


End file.
